There is a compass buried in my chest,
its arrow rusted in place-
fixed on a moon I’ve never touched,
but always felt.
The needle forged in my heart only knows one direction.

Stitched from longing,
Or an ache’s pull?
I cannot tell.
It’s Ineffable,

Like faint whispers gliding on a summer breeze,
Streetlights glowing softly,
Stars fading into the night,

But my glasses are rose tinted.

Behind them,
the moon is veiled with clouds
It’s shimmer is dimmer.
The streetlights flicker,
the stars retreat.

The compass within me is faltering,
It’s needle trembling, pointing south.
I reach for you
but my hands are met with static,
a distortion that blurs your warmth,
sealing me off from your touch.

My hands ache for what they’re denied
A stale hush,
thick as smoke,
Makes every breath feel tight,

I watched you go
whilst the words
lingered
on my chest.

The needle fades.
One day,
I’ll ask
if the moon was ever real.