Morphling

I drink a cocktail of moonlight and gin, laced with angel dust.

My cheeks flush with iridescence, my wings beat against the heavy summer night.

Sweet nectar drips down my chin; I catch it with the back of my wrist, careful not to scratch myself on sharpened fangs.

Long locks blow in the breeze, blinding me, as I balance along a log.

I recede into the wood, searching for a likeness...

a partner

a mother

a mirror

lost on a journey without markings or a map.

So I drink a cocktail of moonlight and gin, laced with angel dust

alone.