Twelve black moons in your eyes
I wait for them to rise.
Twelve kisses unaccounted,
to sequin your moon-face.
Twelve dreams, nascent
tucked away in twelve corners.
Twelve more lives to be lived,
in twelve planets yet to arrive.
Twelve galaxies to saunter through,
twelve bodies to adorn.
Twelve magicians barefeet
twelve tricks sublime.
Twelve long years to salvation.
Grey mushroom clouds
hang on a sky sunless, stolid
as the flowers wilt
in your lonely bird’s beak.
But tonight the blood moon
will rise in her purple iris
and the night river undulate
through her lifeless veins.
And she would say,
“Can I hide under your warm plumage tonight please
and hear the music of your sorrowful heart beating?”
A beautiful story and performance by Andrea Gibson..
Loneliness is but a little ghost
that hides behind your eyes’ shadows.
He lights up a cigarette
and offers a generous smile,
A new glint in his very dark eyes,
a new sliver of the moon rises today
not meant for my dark skies.
He doesn’t hold my hands,
but offers a generous mug of coffee
and a very small portion of love,
some advice and small, incomplete departures.
He doesn’t offer me his birds today
nor their colored feathers.
But he offers small, incomplete departures
He doesn’t offer me his songs
But offers telegraphic emails.
What remains is,
notes exchanged in poetry,
life shared in musical notes
and small, incomplete departures.