Maybe it was just a dream,
butterflies in the morning and
lunar moths at night.
Connected beneath the constellations that once
dismantled me cell by cell and then
pieced me together with every
porcelain atom.
Dewy grass that reminded me
that winter's curse was close and
that summer days could be counted on each of our
free hands.
But we laughed at the falling leafs and
forgot that the world was changing us,
closed our eyes and stained cotton sheets with
crimson like the land around us.
And so I held my breath and counted my blessings,
consoled you with words meant for myself,
and thought of the way you sip sangria and
sleep with the same
parted lips.
And I knew that summer would come again if we
counted with our hands together,
and the leafs would curl, and
I would curse each
passing season.
So we became lunar moths for
- maybe one more night,
and stared and swore and
touched rosy cheeks with fingertips
numbed from the cold. And
made a promise with every porcelain cell that
with each crunch of snow,
forgiveness would follow.