reaching

We gave it

a shot.

Did what

we could.

Ran full up

on feeling.

Believed

in love.

In being.

Then we

dropped.

Hard and apart

and out of

each other.

Onto the floor.

And we dressed.

Down

the rickety stairs.

Under

the flickering light.

We stood

on the stoop.

You stared

into the sky.

Exhaled

a long

vapory sigh.

And I

tried

to make

sense

of the night

by thinking

about the way

our bodies felt.

Unfamiliar

in the dark.

Mine gone soft.

Yours firmer

than ever.

And how we could

not kiss.

Talk about

it.

Or touch.

You

shop

for new shoes,

skirts,

and perfume.

I

drink

early

and late

alone

at home

and in bars.

We are

humming

different tunes.

Hearing less

and less

of each other

every day.

Now,

is too late.

Everything

that has not gone

is going.

Escaping.

Out of us.

Into the night.

And thinking

will never

bring it back.

Because thinking

never does.

We will only

be left

with us.

Broken

in the quiet

chill.

Summer

passing.

Autumn

closing

in.

And a bat

flying over.

Then between us.

Nabbing a moth.

One

of the chosen

few.

Mesmerized

by light.

Enchanted

by warmth.

Taken

by the glow.

And you

too frightened

to move

or scream,

to do

anything.

Even with black

wings flapping

near

your face,

and my hands

reaching

out

for you

in the dark.

Copyright © 2024 by KJ Stevens