moon stole the sunlight and, in mid-evening,
you could've seen the stars punch in,
with that consistent lack of effort;
the solid cycles, bound up against the patterned grain,
tracks hurried and buried in pitch,
asphalt markings on fingertips, molten and stained cliffs,
some temperate refrain, issued from distant speakers,
life winds springs and holds hope, moving on.
but, round the backs of tall thoughts,
meaningless as reason often finds itself,
that plot already jut out, churning,
and as a digital globe circled and lit up the whitewash,
the words on the wall, dried up, cold, and honest,
spoke volumes of rending misery,
split limbs, spilt cause, spent sleep.
and, now, this is the moment,
half-lip words, falling, ever so gently,
her rain, coating the floorboard dust,
already forgetting the rest,
the moment
promptly stood up
and left.