Ah-ooh-ah-ooh

Of course, I love the moon, he typed with force and accuracy. Next line. I would bury my shivering feet in its face and dance, sublunar, a crater for each toe, and become the little finger of the minute hand of our heavenly timepiece. If only she would glance at me, who for all my life has turned away. If the moon had shoulders, they would be cold. Yes, she who tells the sea to blow coolly in his face and at his page's back. I will not poecize on you, he swears, and finishes another line: You who love many but too quickly; who spies all tenderly but too soon; who stares not with her eyes but with her face, her whole face. But unembarrassed? Could she hide it, would she? And what, judge all from above, like me? he ponders, or hopes. She blows in his face again to say: Fly away little mosquito, you've had your fill of me and I gave my blood a donor unashamed. But enough is enough, blood is blood, and one night is just one night