Cerulean Revenant


The light of the waxing moon                                                                                                           
c
   r
      e
        p
          t
through the off-white blinds
casting moonlight and shadow 
across our faces as we lay on the floor.


I blinked sleepily, eyeliner blackened eyes
contact lenses stuck, dry to my eyelids;
blurred room, and neon numbers
of the VCR clock
		2:51?

The stars on the walls 
faintly glowing, 
embers in a 
V  A  S  T  universe

And next to me lay the sleeping,
silent body of a boy.
Hand on my waist, under my head,
breathing
	in
and
	out

The tip of my nose, cold,
caressed his cheek,
breasts and torso  pressed tightly, 
desperately against his.
An entanglement of limbs, blankets
and secret, lucid wet dreams. 

And we breathed in time,
m e t e r e d, melancholy music,
as shadow and light played games
with the stars on the walls, 
courting one another in a strange
Danse Macabre…

I buried my face in his shoulder,
Translucent tear trickled skin,
saline slug-shimmer trials 

My eyes were not popsicle blue
nor were my irises painted witch-hazel,
I did not move like a specter, silent,
gracefully liquid

Skeletal bones and frail paleness 
I was not.
My words were not hymns
And my silence was not holy. 

Yet, in this room, floor painted
in sacred shades of deep morning.
The tangled embrace had swallowed
me into its womb
aqueous and embryonic
limpid liquid love.


Meaghan Quinn Sinclair 

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