Moon Bath

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Moon Bath

She lies between water and heaven,
a hush where the night forgets its name.
Petals drift around her like small confessions,
each carrying a sigh too soft to stay.

The moon leans close,
its silver breath tracing her pulse,
the place where dream becomes skin,
where sorrow turns to light.

Her dress, half color, half silence,
melts into the violet tide;
a watercolor of longing
painted by hands that tremble gently with love.

She does not sleep,
she listens.
To the echo of stars dissolving,
to the distant hum of forgotten dawns,
to the voice that says:
“You are made of light that remembers water.”

And in that stillness,
the whole sky bends,
to watch her breathe,
to become her reflection,
to learn how beauty can ache
and still be kind.