They say the moon walks alone, But I know her pulse, A rhythm held in the jawline of dusk, In the hush before the fox appears. I am queer, Not the neon kind they package, But the ancient kind: Bone-deep, Feral and wild, Woven of twilight and tension, Of longing unspelled. Non-binary like the dusk itself, Like the Finnish Blue Moment. Like a tree reaching, Toward both sun and stone. I’ve loved many, But mostly the Artemis-hearted: The tomboy priestesses, Who laugh like creekwater, Who kiss like a vow And walk like they’ve buried kings. Give me the ones, With scraped knees and kindness, Who press flowers into books, But sharpen their knives at dawn. Give me the feral, The soft-spoken storm, The ones who smell of cedar and defiance. The ones who hold the forest, Like a secret name. The ones whose name is carved, In places temples forgot: Beneath Artemis’ footprint, Where the arrow sleeps in the tree. Who walk sideways through time, Half-feral, half-offering, Neither hunter nor prey. She who asked no questions. She who leans back against the moon, And winks, As if to say, You too, fox-child? You too, little god-in-between? And I say nothing. Only let my shoulders, Unfold into something unclaimed, Not boy, not girl, But the breath between arrows. Eros unchained, heart beat of love. I do not love as the poets do, I love like an eclipse: Slow, devout, Gilding shadows with awe. Drawn not to the lily or the flame, But to the ones who look like dusk. Those who carry storms in their knuckles, And cradle silence in their laugh.
