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!
