my head hurts like the dickens
and you are not here.
Tonight leaving work
there was the moon—
huge and hanging low
pale orange and I thought to tell
you
but you were not there.
Of course. How could I expect you
to be?
It is the hardest because it is
so reasonable
and my mis-starts and missteps
like a child who keeps thinking
the Andes are next to the
Himalayas
and crying when she is wrong
because she knows better.
But you, unlike the distant
Himalayas,
ought to be near
to share moonrises on the second
of June
thunderstorms
and quiet Saturdays
drives at golden hour, the air
full
of snowy cottonwood seeds
catching the sun like stars.
(Were there no mountain range
between us
I would lie on the floor beside
you
murmuring conversation until
tired enough
to sleep this headache away.
And your silence would be
broken.)
~j.l.s.
