love, love, love
—you write—
suspicion is this rose,
just like her:
lies in promises.
What is a lie, love?
the same question,
betrayed too late.
Hiding in the night,
the ancient moon recites
the evernight to come.
Yet when her darkness
surpasses the unnameable,
every night will be hers.
So, what will be, love?
Her shadow, lies in invoking
who she really is.
The truth, love?
Write and all nights
are yours.