I once loved a selenophile
who taught me how to mould clay
into eighteen different shapes
and held my fingers
as he let me trace on the surface with a small flower stem.

the love between us lived in sunsets
and hid in monsoon vulnerability
and showed only when his fingers touched my waist and he told me tales
that were spoken through our moon eyes.

I once loved a selenophile
who taught me how to grow a willow flower
in my blue doored balcony
and placed a kiss on my cheek when I got too worried about the wilting of the petals
in my blue hued pot.

it wasn't just butterflies or flutters that made their way to my eyes.
but it was that longing that ever so gently made itself known.
Our love hid in the crevices of the rubber wood doors that our houses so meekly held.
he smelled like something I'd call comfort.

I once loved a selenophile
who taught me joy
and stood firmly on the eighteenth page of my eighteenth poetry scrap
and looked at me with those beautiful moon eyes through the filmsy sunwood
and smiled at me ever so gently.
even he knew
that our love never actually hid
in blue flames or behind clay walls

it raged on in my words
and in his touches.
in his moon eyes,
and in my clay whispers.

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