Oral

The moon is sometimes closer than it seems, especially when it hangs over the bed and resembles someone's lips. Everything is fleeting, almost a dream, where the boundaries between desire and memory blur like light in the twilight. The mind whispers, "you can't," but the heart replies, "what if you actually can?" And the eternal dialog begins between what is right and what is impossible to hold onto. The air trembles with a quiet "please," as if the world could be persuaded with a single whisper. Even the touch of hair becomes a prayer, not for passion, but for permission to be alive, even for a moment. Everything around dissolves into this "I don't know," and this uncertainty doesn't make it scary, but strangely warm, like the light of that very moon hanging above the bed, which seems to have seen everything before.