drifting under a full moon

drifting under a full moon 

By Sarah Butkovi

enchanted evenings 

begin with the creak of a clairvoyant door. what lies beyond is only real in the present,

ephemeral, 

nothing more than rorschach blotches 

of drinks designed to make the mind muddle memories

of black lace and silver chains, 

kisses like early summer cherries 

landing on exposed skin 

and turning silver in the candlelight 

caught between arousing whispers 

and secrets divulged twice, maybe three times

under midnights past;

because nothing is fully remembered 

in a temporal place made ad hoc for love, 

a solipsistic setting only fleetingly tangible,

never real in retrospect, 

hardly there at all, 

yet stringing indelible chords 

of absinthe-flavored bliss.