You offer me the harvest bouquet you know I love. I savor their fragrance so much more deeply than you can possibly know. I glimpse the subtle sheen of your sweat. The pulse at your throat, twitching like a hare’s thumping foot, as your pale blue eyes meet mine.
Do you truly love me as you say? Will you follow me wherever I go, as you claim? Do I dare trust you?
As I carass your cheek, I ask, “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“More than anything,” you answer.
Your elevated pulse misses no beat. There is no novel stench of deception in your fresh sweat.
I smile. Nestle in your outstretched arms.
Bite your throat.
Blood flows. You look at me, confused. When the moon rises, that’ll end.
So I whisper:
“You cannot pluck moonlight to bring in your pocket!“
We write prosery over at dVerse tonight, where Mish pubtends and serves us a delicious line from poet Helen Hoyt.
The pub is open! Come join us!
Frank J. Tassone 
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