there you are, moon,
de harina de maíz,
older than yellow itself—
like arepa flipped by hand,
floating soft,
in the blue gradient,
that melts into purple.

it’s all an ocean,
isn’t it?

there’s no cabstand to the stars,
but the moon’s a stone’s throw.

i won’t ever hold it, la luna,
but she’s here,
like you once were.

don’t much understand the moons and stars
anymore
couldn’t understand you either.

i guess you weren’t
who i thought you were,
and that stings.

then again,
i lied too,
maybe because i saw myself in you,
me in your mirror.

shit. i’d run too.

-

the moon slips through the telephone wire,
choking it,
the way a cat toys with a fly.

our love
never had much room to breathe,

did it, sweetheart?

too little time.
too much ocean.