Punctuation

My moonlit skin belonged
in a page (ripped and abandoned) from history
a mistake
an abandoned life
with habits
and ceremonious ubiquity
and long reads
That light washed over me as another sense
(somewhat like air or water)
showing translucent
as ice
Sometimes I recognize that skin
as a glimpse
(hot and feverish)
in a reflection (blurred and smelling of age)
tilted at an unbelievable angle (sharp and skewed)
My words sometimes speak out of that former being
wrapped in that
moonlit skin
but
that voice is shaky (soft and cowardly) and can't remember
how to wrap
a comma
around
all
of its
unfinished
business.