The Moon woke me
                 there,
            partially hidden
      beneath the dark silken sheets.
   Blushing. Concealed,
                            yet radiant.
She calls out in the aftermath,
       a desire I hear often.
       “Come closer,” I say,
           I motion with my hand.
      “You have touched me.”
                     She does not blink.
“Lay in your bed and
I shall look out
overhead,”
   she promises, as she has before.
        “Look out.
          look up,
          love me
                    more.”
             Then she hides,
             mischievously,
    behind clouds
        as thick as
             root beer floats.
                  “You’ll find me again,”
                    she whispers.
        And I will.
                                © 207 j.g. lewis