The moon is wax.

Melting in the arms of a salty summer night, made from the same salt as my hot tears:

The salt of the Earth.

The knot in my throat that I swallow down, like a hard fist restricting airways.

I take comfort in not being able to breathe, trapping the pain trying to claw its way up through my lips.

I wish for it to be replaced by your tender fingers, wrapped around my pale throat.
Restricting my air.
Monitoring each breath.
As the moon
drip
drip
drips
her tears onto my pallor.

It is your hand that is choking me, not my pain.
It is the wax of the moon dripping onto my face, not my tears.

I lie to myself before sleep, then call it a bedtime story.