JAHN X KIS MOONROSES

The light is a predator. High above, the moon sits like a cold, lidless eye, casting a clinical light that strips the garden of its secrets.
It sharpens the world until everything has an edge.

In this light, the roses are pulses of fever.
Their red is too deep, too heavy for the stillness of the air, looking like wet silk, draped over skeletons.
They lean toward the moon, in a desperate, straining reach for a light that offers no warmth.

To love the rose in this light is to accept the puncture.

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