she was not the sun
nor the brightest star

she was the quiet, unassuming moon;
gentle gleaming light that tumbled
through my window sill,

silver strands of mercury woven
through her starshine hair
that beamed

just as bright
as anything else in
this galaxy

only morning skies mourn
the death of the stars;
icy cold,
as bright as flame,
they glimmered yesteryear:
a flash of warmth,
a wink of light,
then nothingness again

you know that feeling when
you stare too long at a word and
you no longer grasp the meaning so
you stop looking?

perhaps that’s why
you fell out of love with me

you stared too long and
decided to stop loving

my first love was literature:

my first skipped heartbeat belonged to lazy afternoons
when i skimmed my hands over the surface of an open book,
all surface tension, skipping stones and soaring -
i could not get enough.

next was my fluttering stomach, from tempest-tossed evenings
when fiction and a flashlight were my friends
where i read of silver mountains and dreamt of golden seas -
(the best books always followed me in dreams.)

and last, my first hitched breath, stolen from moon-still nights
when i drummed my fingers across the printed words
to soak them in like moss does fresh-fallen rain -
and that was when i knew that i had fallen

deeply, irrevocably in love.