Her dark tresses, dipped in a luminescent sheen, cascade in waves, in wisps, and in fleeting ephemerality. Her orbs of flecked white, submerged in gray sky, twinkle in secrecy and in tantalizing serenity.

waxing crescent:

Hiccupping sips of a velvety bitterness coax warm, cloudy memories down a tightening throat. The full bottle sloshes—recklessly—in her veins. Aflame kisses of white-then-black nothingness gingerly engulf the backs of her eyelids. She thrives.

full:

The shoreline glimmers: a sea of glowing ember, seared into sparks by heat’s iron fingers. Toes dipped in caramelized sun, she drenches herself in a pearly conflagration, gooey golden rays dripping off her chin. An unused bottle of sunblock rests eternally in the musty trunk of her towed car; still, she’s gleaming.

waning crescent:

A blistering stench clings to the mottled carpet. The yawning curtain inhales a thin veil of sunset, the blunt light sharply piercing the fluttering tufts of smoke. A burnt-out cigarette clenches beneath her pout, her frosted eyes winking in syrupy fatigue. She’s fading.

new:

Diluted darkness. A shattered fragile glow.

Starry remnants dotting the impalpable air.

A last glimpse of her dark tresses, then she disappears from view.

“Look’s like there’s no moon today.”