“When will he come back?”
Her heart ached for his touch,
For the gentle caress of his fingers down her spine.
His voice whispering in her ear–
It didn’t even matter what he said.
But he wasn’t coming back.
He had made that clear.
The Night had whisked him away,
In the form of a Gothic siren with dark purple lipstick and killer hypnotic dance moves.
He could have her.
It wasn’t serious anyway, and she was just as enchanted with the Moon as he was with his siren.
She had begun following the cycles,
And planting seeds for her new beginning.
Any day now.
She could feel the earth ripening with potential,
Pulling her into its dance of the seasons.
She dropped her cloak,
And let the light of the full moon envelop her–
Cascades of stars falling down her back,
Into a glowing pool of light at her feet.
This was her home, now.
Here with the stars, and the moon,
And the pool of ancestral wisdom.
No man was needed,
No other voice–
But the voice of the owls calling through the night,
But the voice of the River flowing through her veins.
Whatever happened from this point on,
Whoever came and went,
She knew this much:
She too had surrendered herself to the call of Night,
And from this point, the Mistress Moon would do with her whatever she desired.