Demands

You ask for the moon.
I trek down into the indigo sky-mine,
pickaxe in hand. Hack
at the blue rock, until I find
a lump of ore - glowing
like a pupil-less eye - lost its stare.
I melt it down; fire it to a ring - an eclipse.
You dress your finger's neck. Content.

You ask for the river.
I stretch back into the bed sheets;
they groan - weathered banks,
as I wind in white, carving a new ice age.
Freckles frolic like fish on the surface
of my skin. You arch over me -
a bridge. Pleased.

You ask for immortality.
I share the you-less future,
leaning my neck as if it were
our willow; kissing place, teeth marks,
dark scars. I assure you that if the two
sides of my wounds brush fingers,
your name will tear them apart.
You leave, thinking there is still time,
but already it is too late.