Memory curses us, like the slow moon whispering a tempest’s spurn;

except now, we are the ocean, and you are gravity, softly there.

Don’t go so soon my moon.  There are things left to say to tide you over.

 

To and fro, we are awash, wavering with a wanderer’s wrecked yearn,

yielding yet yanked from you.  Beating the heart out of grief, we cuss the fair

memories that curse us, like the slow moon whispering a tempest’s spurn.

 

Reeling in regret to sever it’s hold on your soul, you spot us, love-torn;

you let go of the anguish and lift us from our weather-worn state to shore.

Don’t go so soon my moon.  There are things left to say to tide you over.

 

You stay awhile to smile, saying nothing and everything, burning

the silent mourning tuft. A hushed reminiscing swells in sorrow’s shared

memories that merge us, like the slow moon whisperingthe tempest’s break.

 

Twilight stirs, beckoning you and from dust to dust you go, the embers stay,

and we are alone, together, a mourning tuft, smoldering cinders.

Gone too soon, my moon, composed of things left unsaid at the tidal wake.

 

In the sandy pews off the shore, we watch the timeless projection ache

into motion the sunrise, never forgetting the idle waves that bare

the memories which merge us, like the slow moonwhispering the tempest’s break.

Gone too soon, my moon, composed of things left unsaid at the tidal wake.