on nights like this,
as though the heavens wish to
provide just enough light to
fingerpaint the world in
soft tones of grey-
a clumsy child
with a knack for hues.
These are the nights when
I miss you most.
It's almost as though
the man on the moon
senses my anguish
and is reaching his beams down
in a consoling embrace.
I loved him once,
when he was full.
But his constant
waxing
and his
waning
(like the ebb
and the flow
of the sea)
broke my heart into
a million tiny pieces
and scattered them
all along the shore.
My heart is now used for
sandcastles and
the temporary casting of
footprints by day
and washed clean
every evening as
the ocean
and
the moon
each kiss me
goodnight
I do confess that
I've never slept better.