Paying the moon

by Abner Dormiendo

We asked the moon to move us. High tide and we are half-drunk in ripened sorrow. The price of poems, unmoored buttons, chewed pen caps, we’re poor. But how much to be moved? How much to be ocean? I want my blood to sway like tides and you want the moon to give you a daughter, blond hair and eyes the size of tiny planets. If by daughter we mean love. I want salt and you want love, all forms of love, that love as big as the sky, that one you can fit into the smallest artery. How much for the artery? If by artery we mean love. If I gave you a pint of blood, O Great Banker in the Sky, how much will it cost? To bleed is nothing. To be water, that’s something. If by water we mean love. If by water we have oceans of it. How much is the ocean paying the moon? How much for a night of shifting tides? If by tide we mean love. If by tide we mean emotions. Humans and poems and moons. That push and pull. Ebb and flow of love and pain, happy and hollow. Oceans and rivers and puddles is all but same. The exchange rate of change is time. If by time we mean love. If by change we mean love, then by all means, stay.

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Day 7: Write about money. This is all blabber and it makes no sense to me, like money.

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