Every night I look up at the moon and want to bite it
I imagine fitting the whole glowing mass into my mouth and feeling a cool air escape through my lips
A small light would glow through my opal teeth and slowly fade as it melted away
First bite it would crunch but soon liquefy and coat my tongue
It would be sweet, not like sugar, but like rosemary
It would have a tang to it, like an orange, but spice like cinnamon
Every season would build and collapse within a moment before swirling down my throat like the remnants of a cough drop
Reaching out to grab the mini-sized snack from the sky and bring my arm back I find nothing comes with it.
The moon hangs there in the sky waiting to be told as cheese in a children’s story or fished from in the beginning of a movie.
Its dents do not pop back like the top of a car after being sat on and it stares beyond me covering the ground I walk on.
Every morning I wake up and look towards the sun wondering if on the other side of this titled earth
there is someone looking up at the moon
and wanting to bite it.