The other day, I accidentally
spilled moonlight on the shadows
where you used to sleep.
I almost cleaned it up
until I realized it didn’t matter anymore.

I told the clouds they were not
welcome to shed tears
over your side of the bed,
that the rain had to drown me too.

I asked the sunset if
it ever missed the sun,
if vermillion meant farewell,
if the dusky purples hurt
when they were pressed,
if the coming darkness
felt as natural and as effortless
as it looked.

And when the night finally fell
in black oblivion
I found the light you left
in the corners of the room,
under the pillow,
in the spaces between my fingers.
I found it everywhere in the darkness
and nowhere in the daylight
and I hate you for that –

Which is why I started
making room for the moon in my bed
even though he bleaches the sheets.
And I let the clouds lay down their burden
gently, gently over your pillow
in place of my own.
I stopped asking the sunset questions
that I couldn’t answer
and started digging my hands
into the gracefulness of the sky and the ocean and
everything in between.