The difference between the moon and the morning

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as if fingers
and kisses can mend

she needs me to touch her
and I am tired

waking alone
can be like
slowly dying

we meet
at the end of our night

not quite secretly
but boldly neither

animal in bed
shy mornings

collects her scattered clothes
off to work

I begin
writing

stop and think
maybe this is love

this acceptance of what is wrong with each others lives
and these simple actions we use to make it right

or at least
lighter

the old bones crack in agreement
while the birdsong mocks the lack of vision

but I keep typing