Light runs out before love is finished
— some days, I think, even before love begins —
and the horizon blazes with the angry grief
of time we wish we’d had, moments we missed,
stories we didn’t begin to write together
or could’ve written differently
if the sun had just stood still.
I want the moon to play the sun’s role:
to embolden what could be, to thaw our hesitations,
to shrink the shadows of fear and disappointment.
But no, the sun tears itself out of the sky,
the light leaves, and love remains an ellipsis
that we carry to bed,
tucking it under the pillow with the wish
that tomorrow won’t bring the same heartbreaking omissions.

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