the moon told me a secret
about a night
years ago
when you were still a kid that wore sneakers
and let the grass paint your knees
he told me about the night
when your tin can phone didn't work
when there must have been too many green beans
stuck inside
because no one came when you called
the moon told me summers later
when your bike's tire went flat
going over the train tracks
and you had to walk the whole south block
to find your dog dead at home.
the moon told me how you learned to be alone
but that you never learned to like it,
he told me of the time that you woke in the night
and ran into the lake while you cried
because the dreams you loved always vanished
the moon told me stories from all the years before i met you,
all the times i wish i was around for you.
time is one of two enemies
and clock hands only turn one way
but i never want you to forget
that as long as i live, and maybe sometime after,
i will be on the other end of your tin can phone,
and you can tell me your dreams before memory fails
and i'll walk all eleven blocks with you,
i'll dry your clothes stained with lake water
i'll eat the crust of your sandwich
and finish stories when your eyes grow tired,
we'll learn how not to be alone together
and i hope that we like it.