Luna Moths

Maybe it was just a dream.

Butterflies in the morning

and luna moths at night.

Connected beneath the constellations

that once dismantled me cell by

cell and then pieced me together

with every porcelain atom.

Dewy grass that reminded me

that winter’s curse was close

and that summer days could be counted

on each of our free hands.

But we laughed at the falling leafs

and forgot that the world was changing us,

closed our eyes and stained cotton sheets

with crimson like the land around us.

And so I held my breath

and counted my blessings,

consoled you with words meant for myself

and thought of the way

you sip sangria and sleep

with the same parted lips.

And I knew that summer would come again

if we counted with our hands together,

and the leafs would curl

and I would curse each passing season.

So we became luna moths for

-maybe one more night,

and stared and swore

and touched rosy cheeks with fingertips

numbed from the cold.

And made a promise with every porcelain cell

that with each crunch of snow,

forgiveness would follow.