19 April 2014

blood moon

This morning at 1:56,
we lay together on my roof
watching the eclipse.
It was cold.
We had five blankets
and two pillows
and we left our shoes on,
but still, we were freezing.
With my back pressed to your chest
and your arms wrapped around me,
I whispered,
"What are you thinking about?"
But you didn't reply.
Slowly,
your breathing
evened out.
I watched as the moon emerged from behind Earth's shadow,
and listened as you began to snore.
At that time of night
(morning? night?)
everything is quiet
stagnant.
No cars passed.
The hum of appliances ceased.
Only your sleeping noises broke the silence.
Only the rise and fall of your chest shattered the stillness.
I wanted to fall asleep with you
and let the sunrise wake us,
but I knew you had to be home.
And so I wanted to wake you then,
and ask you again what you were thinking,
but you sounded so peaceful
and I knew you were tired.
I turned back to the stars.
Without my glasses, the moon
looked foggy,
and its light watery,
as it crossed the sky
and found sunlight to reflect.
And I watched.
I didn't know how long I'd been tracking its progress.
I reached over you and you jerked awake
like you'd been underwater, holding your breath.
You asked me the time
and my phone screen lit up just in time for me to watch
2:27 turn into 2:28.
You lay back down
but you told me you had to go home.
Your eyes closed.
Your muscles relaxed.
So tired–
so tranquil–
I shook you awake.
You told me again you had to go home
but neither of us moved.
We didn't budge
for a long time after that.
It almost felt like you would stay on the roof
with me.
But today at 11:49 I woke up in my bed,
without you.

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