Was there still a moon that knows me? Was there some poignant satellite, some folded romance or finger-light trifle? Something left to look for, once looking is allowed. Maybe it is the season, maybe it is only me. The light goes on, the light goes off. I forgot the color that means go.
I swallowed that truth, like a swallowed some fortune. There is a romance to the dealt hand, the finished set. There is completion to the chance that is taken last. At least this moment done, this war ended. At least there is something more in the crusts and rinds, the tea leafs left once the meal is done. That chance that last is surpassed and surprised.
The calendar promises everything, so many more days to sort out, so many marks to make. But look to the sky to reach this last sentence. Look to the heavens before you settle on rain. I look out, hoping that this shine will reach my eyes. I look out, seeing my hope gazing back.