Yes. Damnit. We are still doing this.
Even if it’s only this much. We are still doing it.
I wrote a poem about the ouch.
The moon eyes me through the trees
-these bare branches hide nothing
and she sees my ragged soul.
Inhabited by half-truths,
I don’t know the way back anymore
I only know the delusion.
Broken bone china white lies,
delicate with spidery cracks
just enough truth seeps in to keep me from becoming
completely lost under the burden
of these stories mistold.
She never blinks.
I feel the pressure of that gaze,
it lays upon me like a hot iron.
One second longer and I’ll blister for sure.
I don’t remember what it’s like to feel the heat
of a look that yields to passion.
Only the uncompromising
opaque blind stare
of that far away moon.