Look this way, my wicked.

On evenings when the warm effervescent glow of the moon gilded the ground,
your skin glitters,
your eyes dance with slivers of moonbeams and,
dare I say, fairy dust.
I am a shell filled with maybes and what ifs.
My skin screams protests that seek your quiet.
Your presence satiates this black hole of a heart —
each touch is a blanket of carnal promises so sweet,
I want to believe in the magic.
You were my everything once,
if everything meant kisses that burned into the soul.
You were the air that filled my lungs,
if air meant the hope of tomorrows and forevers.
I still yearn for you, my wicked.
Despite this tempestuous love affair,
I still rise from the wreckage you left in your wake
arms wide open, nose bloody.
Dearest fickle muse, heal me.
Touch me.
Move to the skips of my heartbeats.
Sway to the rhythm of my honesty.
This is what you came for, isn’t it?
This is the ever-after to your once-upon-a-time.
This.
This is it.
Just look my way.
Look my way once more.