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.