Walking the moon

Every touch
becomes the orgasm of life itself
and in its throes, you and I
become one, an island
tossing on its swollen seas.
Time storms through moments
that surf its pleasure.

But the moon is so sad in the sky
as it reminds and goes by.
It knows the morn lays bait
to loot my treasure.
Far and high on a plane
across a sea gone silent
you must go
and pay your excess baggage of pain.
For me, well, I’ll walk
the moon each night
to an island where memories live.
Sad, it’ll be your touch
the only thing they won’t give.

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