It’s dusk at the light house, clearing the low living room table just enough
to put a Go board down. A “quick game” while N is in the shower.
rhythmic click, click, click, interrupted
by trash talk when someone doesn’t put down fast enough.
Surrounded by cat toys, alchemical dictionaries, beer bottles,
what a silly way we modern mystics spend our days
and our nights slipping out under incandescent skies
feeling the bubble of isolation not sought but cherished
as my love, so graciously, presses
the lit tip of a cigarette between my leading knuckles.
Holds it there so I can feel the pulse
of the universe in the insects and the pain.
The shared smirk. We know what this pact means.
A kiss on still-hot skin for luck, for when it comes to playful blows.
Here in the lighthouse, fae-like in our intensity—
isolation gone to fruit— to hide in a night of sharp sensation.
Can’t you see the moon tonight? Can’t you tell this
dream-filled sigh is how we reflect its shine?
Jay Artemis Hull is an occult experience consisting mostly of love, longing and library facts.
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