Early in the morning, maybe I would think of him, asleep,
While I waited for daylight to burn away this tenderness.
I was only gentle under a moon, and only then when he blessed me
Some forgetfulness that I was still me after everything.
There'll be years of unraveling myself, silently like a cat with yarn,
To lay him down and answer the questions in his architecture,
And unmask the futility of reconstructing his eggshells.
In the day, I'd make rainbows by his particles dividing,
Bending each color out of me, perfect arcs ending nowhere,
Gone in each new light, the long seasons we sleep apart.
When I think of him, I imagine how very lonely we are now-
(But single, monochromatic arcs trying to hold up the weight of the sky)
And how much lonlier we could make each other.
Eric D. Moore