Wane

Some days it feels like the sadness no longer touches you.
I see you move lightly on your feet like you once did
when I watched you from under the rain.

The mornings like feathers unravel and slow
and we not only catch our breath but also breathe
and think nothing of it, like it's the most natural
thing in the world.

On those days, I still pluck thorns from my skin
and rub away the dull aches of worry wanting
to bruise me. And I still side-eye your resting
expression but let my guard down after a while.

The sunshine isn't harsh, and there still tends to
be a chill in the breeze. Our backs warm while our legs
rest on lake-chilled boulders as we gaze into the waves

but even then there's a distant howl,
so quiet it could be mistaken for out-of-reach traffic
and so intermittent we could hear it as a faraway gull

and the closer you get to its epicenter,
the more it booms into your canals
the air pressure shifts, the cloud curtain closes,
the people look a little less friendly

everything is sharp
like a druggie's used needle
and when the moon finally comes out,
it's just a sliver