Cloisters of powdered memories -
your promise to meet me on the moon,
though we would be planted many
states away, we would breathe
that November air and flurry
our words past translation.
But you've hidden from me;
I can't stencil crescents or quarters
into my forearms anymore.
Your face is far too cratered
to be matched by a mere simpleton.
You once told me we could land on the moon
without wings, but your love is receding,
confidence drenching highlands in
remorse, for happiness can't always stick,
not like these sudden snow crystals
that stiffen my dreams of flying.
Someone will take you home, tomorrow,
and it won't be me. But I will arrive late
to greet your shadow as you will hug
what remains in me,
