The Moon is a Truffle

He is totally inaccessible,
a music box I’m trying to prise open.
Bejewelled.
Beautiful as the moon,
he shares its character,
night wanderer,
reflector of hopes.
Then the elements obscure him.

I want to put smoke
in a perfume bottle
to watch it swill.
Better to chase the intangible
and always be free
but forever have saccharine dreams.

Love doesn’t care
for age or stature.
It’ll return to the scene
like a serial killer
and work its own wound.

When I had him I had myself,
held my own body in my arms,
kissed my own neck,
felt my own curves,
extremities and skin.

In this tale
he turns into a pig
or the shimmering veil is lifted
to reveal he was a pig
or I climb into the pigpen
to roll in stinking rind
or we’re all pigs,
squealing, blind.