Boreal Moon

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Last night, 

when the moon 

was yellow 

and low,

I remembered you,

the way you looked

the day before you left

This morning,

when the bathwater

drained opaque

and boreal,

I heard you,

the way you murmured

“I’m sorry” in my ear

Right now,

as the skies

drizzle gray

and cold,

I feel your palm,

a ghost of steady pressure

resting low on my back

Tomorrow, next week,

in a month or year,

the touch of you,

smell of you, look

in your eye, 

I know not what of you

time will allow me 

to keep

March 2015

Exquiste Corpse Poem by Zombie Salon subset: Andrew, Julie, Tricia

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