Sitting there in the starlight, a whisper of breath in the air, a hint of night on her tongue, she steals my thoughts. In the deep places of her eyes and the moonlight threaded through her hair, she paints me worlds I'd never dreamed of exploring until that moment.

The breeze rippling the tall grass, scattering it like wind on the water, is all that marks the time. Even the moon seems to sit still. I wait for the next words to roll from her tongue, dark and deep and full of silver from the moon.

Those words twist at me, steal the thoughts from my head like they weren't mine to own. Twisted shades of blue are all that remain, dancing in the shadows, waiting for her tongue to give them something else to ponder.

I wait on baited breath, on borrowed sheets strewn across grass damp with dew. Laying amongst shivering plants, I watch the moonlight stream through her hair, washing it in the cool glow of forgotten places and secrets locked away.

My world is filled with twisted words and thoughts clamoring to be heard amongst the din in my head. They are mine, the bent shapes of dark dreams and moments alone in the night.

The night is what I know, broken bodies split by moonlight and hazy shadow. I am nothing but a white face in the tree line, staring at the stars. When the sky is filled with cool light, twisting dark and blue and shattered amongst mason jar stars, I let a wild breath out. It's all that leaves my lips. The words stay locked inside, there is nothing lovely enough to draw them out.

Somehow she steals those thoughts from my head with words dipped in gold. Her fingers trace my skin, sending ripples across my flesh. The thoughts leave my body, dancing across the back of her hands until I feel almost empty of them.

There is no more weariness in my bones, no more anxiously waiting for the night to steal me away. I feel free, unburdened by the day, by the shuffling footsteps and loud voices of those I cannot escape from.

When these thoughts are drawn from my body, all my senses come to life, whispering quietly into the night. They spin and dance around her fingers, cascade like moonlight from her tongue. I forget about the daylight, I focus on not being numb.

There is a difference between emptiness and feeling hollow. I am content and empty, but when I'm hollow, when I'm numb, my world is muddled and full of dark shapes.

Sitting in the dark after nights like these, when I'm alone and empty and ready to sleep, I feel as if I don't need structure to my words. I let them just pour out of me in chaos and shattered phrases. That is me.

The organization of thoughts, driving you towards a conclusion, takes away from the images of shifting light over dew covered grass, from cool fingers playing in your hair on borrowed bed sheets, from soft words falling off raspberry lips, from the taste of gin and a sky full of stars.

I lay in the dark and count words in my head, thinking about all of the thoughts I hadn't let roll from my own lips.

I remember the way her fingers traced patterns against my skin, lines running cool and steady across my face.

In the night she drew the words from my head, leaving it whole and empty again. Then she wandered off, chasing the moon, and I never saw her again.

Some things have no shape to them, they are just jumbles of words falling from my head. Some things have no beginnings, no ends, just forgotten moments left alone beneath the moon.