Love, I have a small confession to make:

Inside of me

the moon unravels.

There are no cathedrals only the façades of cathedrals.

The young bodies of our selves

—the ones neither of us ever knew—

embrace passion again.

Their sheets bunch and snake away

leaving them naked on the sheer edge

of a night not unlike this one

where we find ourselves now,

hand within hand.

Everything is neatly framed dishevelment—

that is to say, I’m sure

within each of those smooth bodies

another moon is unraveling

like love itself;

pulled to a final string

before respooling.

I love the way her (your)

hand opens

a gorgeous flower;

petals reflecting the lunar light.

And yes, they (we) unravel ourselves too.

We are always becoming

and undoing.

We watch ourselves

build another façade of a tombstone

out in the valley beyond

the Hollywood of our bodies.

Long shadows in the moon

like steps, like accounting

or confessing—

a measure of all the times we let go,

let the chord roll off the spool

and pool into something

new and unnamed

and just slivering into brightness

we will call ourselves.

 

 

Photo Source: Ffffound!