21st,
fresh,
young,  
impressionable.
Idly watching the growing days,
while your nights get shorter and empty,
longing for the return of that tiny
ray of sunshine,
to gently graze your cheek,
beaming more each day.
The moon waits in silence,
right behind,
with tidbits of time on a ticking lip,
two hands on it’s face,
squabbling over who reaches twelve first.
Midnight,
and the sun sleeps earlier,
with every passing second,
longing for resolution,
with the moon right behind,
only off by an hour,
twisting, manipulating,
the tide;
tongue.