Under the Still Black Sky

 

Under the Still Black Sky

One last time we looked for lights in the sky.
 It’s been months since I’ve seen you.
Thank you for joining me tonight.
Several final goodbyes broached—
we’re catching up under black skies.
Step by step up the path, we share stories and strife
of our diverting roads to healing,
the shock and numb that parting brought to life.

The sky was clear and full of stars,
but absent of the northern lights
that once tethered us to wonder.
We stood and shared on the dark hillside,
punctuating pause points to take inventory of the sky
and see if the lights had yet arrived.
You agreed to meet if I kept things light.
I wonder if you think of me,
why you accepted my invite
to come out under cover of night.
I compartmentalize and save these things
for my next moment alone.

A latent sadness backdrops the conversation.
 Us stargazing like days of old.
Certain topics tabled, forever without reproach.
Burning questions I hold still,
for we are lost lovers on diverging courses.
Still, it’s nice to feel partially held
in a conversation riddled with restraint.
I’m happy to know you’re doing alright,
but there’s a new sadness to you.
A sadness to me, but that’s not up for discussion.

We forfeit to the still black sky
 and return to my car.
The conversation continues on
as if to sully and slow
the inevitable coming once-more final goodbye.
It’s a spirited talk with an old friend,
without expectation of being seen again.
Personal enough, willingness to share,
but confounded by rules neither of us quite understand.

You wanted to show me work done to the house.
I step in as a first-time guest to my old home.
It’s a space in transition—altered,
but my presence still within the walls.
I greet the cats we raised who haven’t forgotten me yet.
You are slow to get me out,
as your morning alarm is only a handful of hours away.

We say good night,
and it’s a return to the world beyond and after.

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