Exhale.
There is a reason for that drunk call;
it speaks the sappy and dumb guilt
I've been carrying, pressed on my
stomach, pounding, when the chill inside our bones condensed,
into hazy, weary eyes boring.
It tells a sorry story,
on why I restrained myself
from asking your whereabouts,
I could only regret you by alcohol.
Before I said goodbye, there was a dog
howling nearby, and the moon was big, remember how I asked you if that
was how canines lament their sorrows to the moon, because they could not
be drunk?
And you said I probably needed a nap,
but I just needed your hypnotic, shallow, breathing over the phone,
and maybe that was my
moonbeam.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
