There’s that damn watery moon again –
the same one that used to look in on us
in the tired-as-crap early morning hours
tangled in each other’s wild-ass wonder,
ribs on vertebrae, clavicle on cheekbone,
arms stretched to the breaking point as feet
beat a staccato on torn sheets. She won’t look
away, that moon, watching through the window,
inching silently across my strip of sky until
she disappears and I’m left with counting
the dawns until she and you return.
Image by Susan Clements. Thanks for inspiring this poem, Susan!