The moon rode a dark cloud, and you
A broom, incongruous
Pre-Quidditch
The moon is a pale friend,
I said.
You called to me, "Fly."
The face of the moon made me tremble,
And its tidal pull surged in my womb.
I will fall.
I will drop, gravid, and you,
You will leave me for your genius
And compulsion and the
Way our lives are always parallel,
Even now.
A train track and a road,
But no whistle comes.
Your broom doesn't reach me
Just the moon rays.
"Fly," you insisted and I ached,
trembled to fly, to take
that step off
the ledge.
Fear slayed the moon.
My words bled from me in the pale pre-dawn,
And you flew.
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