I need a window that lets the moon shine in.

The sky is a floating, shadowy thing.
                         "Who are you?"

                               Words itch me. 
Shakespeare, in his barely intelligible genius,
              reminds me: the riddle.

The moon cloaks itself with the impossibility of utter loneliness,
                       flirts with clouds leagues away.
           How could I be just one, and one so far?
Moonlight on my skin is not warm,
is not you, but the universe,                      the air.

    How close I am to you.
            How close to Earth;
                 so close to death.

I need a window that lets the moon in.
         The sky is a floating thing
reaching 
             down to 
        touch 
                                  me.