Moonlight Earth-tight

There’s always been

some gravity between us.

I mean,

I’ve been floating around you

for what seems like all-time.

Your surface is a sparkling jewel

of sapphire waving back at me.

Segments of green are envious

to my eyes; shaded together

by the textured sand of your deserts.

My face a cratered mess:  I’m in shambles.

If only we could truly meet.

I promise you,

it’s lighter on my surface.

Black Dandelion Seeds

It fell like black dandelion seeds.

Curled and tainted memories drifting

to an immaculate shelter against these

grieving, calloused feet,

we were losing you with each snip

that graced our heaving shoulders.

Who knew that rusted silver could cut away so many years,

could stop a faded pulse before the sun rose to say

Good Morning with a Goodbye?

Who knew that folded newspaper edges and

insulin covered secrets could lead up

to the way our faces hung while you slept in a box,

plastic hands folded like horrendously crude origami?

We fell like black dandelion seeds,

wayward ants with no sense of direction,

crawling back to broken hearts and coddled homes.

You were our stoic mountain that crumbled into sand.

You were the silence of a tree before it hit solid land.

We were fragmented dust mites and you were the carpet.

We were black dandelion seeds,

lost to a forgotten breath as your eyes sank into your skull

beneath the unforgiving grass blankets that

used to say, “It’s okay, ija. It’s okay.

We were black dandelion seeds when you died.

We were drifting.

We were lost.

We still are.