the moon, still.

a cup of earl grey and the rain

never seems to end, always there

just like the stars

we saw that night, following the Big Dipper —

upside down, you said —

like pouring water into the horizon, bleeding

into midnight clouds.

I cupped my hands to catch the rain

and none came.

but I heard you ask a question that

splinters when I try to remember

and the moon is still round, still glowing,

still.

arms brush, breaths soft

everything with less meaning than in books

there’s only one-way disappointment.

at least the moon is still round,

still perfect, still cracked,

still.

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