Here I’m mostly tired,
waiting for the moon
to fill me up
with iridescent light,
to be a vessel pale and glowing;
to become more than my body,
more than my thoughts.
Even when asleep
I wish I could sleep deeper,
more soundly,
to sink into a dark and restful chasm,
that I could stay that way
for months and hibernate
all the moments you’re away.
You said I could never know the moon,
could never hold the moon
in the paper-thin folds of my skin,
but what do you know?
After all have you not been selfishly
keeping the whole universe of stars
tucked away within you?
You think I’m unaware
but I can see them.
Maybe I’m not yet ready for the moon,
maybe I could start small,
but you won’t let me borrow the stars from you.
It feels irreverent to talk about it,
like instead we should feel it,
to speak in silent moments,
in impressions of words never uttered.
All those stars, and my moon,
are tainted with words.
We owe them silence
for all the nights that could have come
and laid waste to us
but didn’t.