'I'll give you the moon.'
he promises and I believe it.
For a moment.
'The moon's too big'. I want the stars. I want the sky on a clear night.
He says he can't reach them.
'It's all too big.'
and it is.
Like the air we breathe, everything we need,
we yearn and gasp for:
it's all too big.
I can't rest my cheek against a galactic sun
and you can't go fetching any old moon for anybody.
So we settle on listening to heart beats thundering in the silence of an
empty universe.
And we touch their vastness
and hold it against our chests
feeling the old rhythm.
YOU ARE READING
Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetry
Poetry"But I don't want comfort. I want poetry. I want danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin." ~Aldous Huxley
