This means mostly nothing.

The only man in my life leaves before morning. I like it this way, usually. I see him faithfully every most nights. He comes curling up to me, smelling of night time, secrets, and earth. I lie there, eyes closed tight, mouth barely moving and whisper my whole soul like I'm just talking nonsense to the stars. He's a hunter who has never found what he's looking for and I'm just always feeling h(a)unted.

I can't say he's like a dream and our nights together aren't anything close to clandestine. It doesn't even have the lingering effect of such a thing. There's no haziness as I float through the next day. It's more like waking up with amnesia. Except I'm the tide. So, all it takes is the moon pulling closer to wash in the remnants of old nights. I'm a nocturnal woman who walks the daylight. Most of it could be blamed on the yellow wallpaper I put up in the bathroom that is peeling, but I still wake up reeling laughter alone.
This afternoon, I told stories to the moon while she slept. She wasn't very happy about it, in fact, she barely acknowledged me except to turn over, eyes squinting in the sun, and say, "Where is your hunter?" That always shuts me up because I'm never sure what she means and I think she likes it that way.
I tried to leave moon's house. The afternoon was getting late, which only means the evening was getting early and she was waking up. I always feel her gravity most in the afternoon, but I won't tell her that when she laughs dismissively and tells me to stay. "I didn't mean a thing."
It's a cloudy night, so I know he won't be showing up even though the temperature is a perfect mixture of sadness and love. I won't tell her that, though. She knows and is too busy thinking about how the clouds ruin her light to be worried about me and my hunter(s). I also won't tell her that I think she's looks ravishing in the mystery of the clouds. She won't hear it.

Instead, I just flick my hand like it's nothing as I leave the room, "It's all just a bunch of fiction anyway."