Words with Nuit

My hair, your ink
The price paid for words to finish the story
 Knowledge, the letters to write them

You cut a lock with your sickle
A half crescent light against the pale comets in your flesh

You pulled me from my sheets for this,
into your waking dream

My hair crushed to paint,
mortar and pestle your tongue and fingers
White parchment a milky way,
waiting hands arched with a quill

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