An untitled poem about longing
I don't know how to move
past the poverty of my hands,
when they are empty of you.
Night breathes an empty breath.
No air left for sighing low.
I burn in the ache.
The moon laughs.
Taunts.
It keeps time
to the imitation rising
of the sun which is always there.
It burns off your fog.
I awake. You are miles away,
far back into the night,
that as time moves forward,
you disappear.