We met in the lower register.
My wings set her hair on fire.
We agreed upon a moon
and put it in writing.
The heavy type was used
to build our dream house.
A first floor of capital letters.
In those days we were moveable.
We sent keys to our friends
and ribbon to our enemies.
But the roof was paper thin.
Soon we were infested with lies.
Our moon appeared
in other words,
leaving us lightless and brittle.
My wings and her hair disappeared.
Our home filled up
with high-pitched screams.
And at night
we prayed for erasure.