moonlight girl

It’s three in the morning

and frost spirals along the metal lattice of a forgotten playground,

melting where warm fingers grasp the chains of aging swings,

leaving perfect ovals of dew among an expanse of ice.

Her cheeks are pink from winter air

and shallow breaths hang milky in the moonlight

a moment before ebbing to oblivion.

The swings squeal as if in protest

and faded purple sneakers push away from the ground,

pressing her fragile body against the denim sky.

Moonlight girl,

sparrow heart,

if I could stitch you wings out of these words

I would.