I have always stared longingly at it
on wide open mornings
or endless Sundays, even after a hellish shift
or post-apocalyptic nap

Soaking in that pink and brooding scope
caring or warning,
forever hopeful of what’s to come
reassured that nothing before this really mattered.

When the moon is full, tortilla-round and brazen
I think of you
and the way you also loved
to stare at the sky.