aistė tiriūtė

he's not the beast; I am.

he came from the moonlight. Blinded, for a second, I covered my eyes from crystal light that he bled from thousands of wounds in his trembling body. He bled on a tired land across the moon’s path, he bled on my hands when he fell to embrace the grass,
he bled
into my
soul.

he woke up only the next night, with wind and wails of his prey in the ears. He opened his black cruel eyes and his howl rocked the whole world.
only I (a lunatic) see his unwept desolation. It dissects air and my throat with diamond splinters, when I chant for the night along with his blood. In complete silence his silvery teeth clatter; light sensation fills my veins and it doesn’t hurt, when flowing coldness finally leaves me.
and all around us the stars (that he taught me to exhale) will pop
electric discharges, maybe fireworks in the air
I’m staying here, in the shadows of nacreous moon, to dream the dreams of werewolves.

he’s not the beast; I am.