ALL THESE SOFT, WARM NIGHTS GOING TO WASTE |
On this full-mooned night, the sky is alight, the road glows, the stars dangle like tinsel on last year’s tree, hinged to the endless season of sky. You hear an echo in the air, over the late-night road, in the mating calls of the frogs leaping by the lake. It's nearly spring, and wind is irregular breath—the time her hand found the fossa behind your knee. That hitch. That heat. And you remember the wildflowers that sprung up from soaked earth, turned loverlike, intertwined, only for their petals to fray and brown. Only to hang their heads, mourning the winter. How you winter the lack— the absence of the one you want. You consider this bright, cratered thing, bone-white as the thigh your fingers ghosted over. Moonstruck, you eye this glow as you sway on your axis, knowing, far away, she sees it too— a thought that craters you. |