They say that the next one won’t come around until many years into the future.
It’s a celestial timeline that effortlessly dwarfs our own,
so we celebrate this lunar episode with gratitude.
We come together under the blue moon.
The late summer heat bids the windows stay open; we instinctively obey.
Through open airways comes salty air,
ushered in by the newborn tides.
It laces the room and chills moisture on the skin.
I can taste it like I can smell the candles,
whose wicks we paint with extra-long matchsticks.
They paint the walls with flickering shadows.
Drums beat, speed fluctuating, in constant accompaniment to electric piano.
Psychedelic undertones skirt the fluid precipice between the background and the fore,
like a blanket wrapped around bodies writhing.
Credit is due but it falls on deaf ears,
for the musicians have long been dead.
And the maestro is inanimate.
Under this lingering spell we sway until the percussion tapers.
The moon, now a Ceylon sapphire in the sky,
illuminates fingertips running over skin.
They’re fatigued, like our eyes, ready to slip deep beneath the tides,
deep into a sleep without dreams,
deep under the blue moon.