We met at midnight,
or maybe it was morning,
it was a transitioning time,
a changing time,
and we held hands and jumped,
falling gently into the good night
that everyone else raged against.
I wrapped the darkness tightly around us and counted the stars as they were
popping like old light bulbs,
and the silence piled up until even my heartbeat was muffled
until there was no way of telling where I began and it ended,
if it ended.
It may be that it was a raft and the only thing keeping me adrift…
Do we love the night?
Do we count the words we drop like guillotines?
And when poetry paints every wall a different shade do we match them to their
or leave them to make their own galleries,
to search out different walls to hang upon?
Will I roll off this raft and drift into another changing time,
or must I stay here
wrapped up to keep you safe?
Sleepless nights that bring no comfort at their ending,
are all I can see as I look towards the shrouded, silent horizon,
straining my eyes to see if there are any stars still left…