My moon is full tonight
and the grass is growing blue.
The cool marble of my skin
is breathing
with the breath of your breath
before it touches you.
The halls between my fingers have opened
and are waiting for yours to crawl inside.
The night’s too long
and the space too far
tonight—
there’s too many buildings, too many cars
between us, and the open road
is an endlessly folded paper crane I can’t
unravel with my little fists—
fists that want to open and close around yours
and take these ripped garments of words,
tie them in knots, dangle them
from my window—
but the space to the ground is far,
and this prison of miles too long
for us to travel
My moon is full to spilling tonight
and the bats whisper from their trees.
I have scooped myself out at the core for you,
filled my tank with moonlight.
I am a cup for you to drink from,
the place where birds scatter.
I am the shiver of leaves,
the grass in the clearing
waiting for your footsteps.
The moon in your sky
is the same moon in mine tonight.
Dangle a tightrope in the ether—
send me its picture
through the envelopes of your eyelids.
Send words in disappearing ink.
I have made my bed
in the black holes of your irises,
chafed my lips on the friction
of remembering yours.
Draw me a sheep, draw me a well:
we’re stranded in the desert, and
there’s no fixing this plane
until the constellations,
with their weary clock gears,
have trudged across the cosmos.
I am waiting for you here
like the blue burn of stars.
I am holding you inside me tonight
as the fall descends into winter,
carrying your fire in my dark matter
like a prism
waiting for the sun.
© Psyche Marks 2017