the full moon

i went to bed with wet hair.
scant few inches, curling,
dripping.
but i waited,
upon your insistence
that i would get ill.
that i would get cold.
you loom above me,
gwydion,
possessed of God.
and with a mixture
of alcohol and dopamine
i find your sleeping back
my blank and creamy canvas
surface of intimate artistry
for my coffee-stained,
round-tipped,
white-crescented
tender fingernails.
find your rest between my knees,
on my breast
soothe your tipsy head.
clutch my pillow when i'm gone
until you have me back, instead.