The moon is all bad, someone said. Or that I am bad because of it. I don’t know which but I couldn’t fit it in my mouth or in my bellybutton or in my pocket so I don’t know how to fix it.
If you know a way; a fixing way, a bettering way, a gentle way, then send me words.
Follow your forehead.
Find your nose.
It is the strangest face. The pink pips in the corners of your eyes and the holes I find that let me see right deep inside you.
Sometimes I wish it were mine, that face. Sometimes I want it only to be strange in this way when I look at it, so it cannot mean the same thing to those others that look at it.
Sometimes when you sleep I look and do not see the same face. No no that is not the face I have made a mistake. And then you wake and it comes hush-rushing back, so the strangeness of it must also be from the life of you; that you are there.
Because it leaves when you leave.
Some kind of self.
(we dress in the dark and I follow your feet on the stairs because you know the ache and creak of our way)