On The First Night

The rituals of our love
have grown tiresome —
you wake me every day with a kiss,
and put me to bed every night
with the same lullabye.

You bite into my heart every day
as though it will never run out,
and will be able to feed you for millenia,

as though the moon that watched us
on the first night
will return as our escort on the last,
and carry us away to a place
where the same kiss every day
will not dull
but seem ever freshed,
youthful and given to whims,
full of song,
of light,
and us.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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