If he had read my heart-
yet tender and young,
before he breathed his last red breath-
there would have been a shining
blistering love to see.
But now that I have learned
the beauty of the stars,
the waning of his light-
reflects my love, it is tempered, cold
to his lingering eyes.
glowing, a shadow of his life
entwined with him, yet-
in the nightly solitude, I am my own
knowing we will never touch.
If the point of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem a day, I have failed in keeping up. All the drafts stare at me, begging for attention, some more than others. Excuse me while I hop around, tending to my garden of posies! The moon is a poetic definition of love and then again it’s not. Who can know what she thinks? Prompt by a friend.