The page opens
to the bleeding heart
pinned against its chest with every light out, and they say no one
wants to read a bruise,
but here it is, swollen black and blue,
listening to the saddest shit it could find
like an ice pack.

None of you were there last night,
(luckily for you)
the hand that grips the heart was the most delicate one around,
and look what it’s done:

one last pressing for a kiss, in the name of science
opens the door that no one holds the key to.
She asks if the hypothesis was confirmed and with a “yes” he makes sure
that it will never happen again, because that twin college bed, with her
wrapped around his arm like a tourniquet, is unbearable:
pushed to the edge by a lonely desire that echoes between icy sheets.

The wind nibbles at frost-bitten toes from its perch among tree shadow and moonlight.
The Moon, she sings a quiet nocturne while reaching in
to put a hand over each
open wound,

drinks a tear, and tells him to laugh:
“True love is here with me against the dark.
Let the stars stroke your chest while you sleep.
Let my body be your home:
Mare Nectaris will nurture your need.
Lacus Timoris will hold your terrors.
Palus Somni will be charged with solemn memories.
Your dreams will reside inside Sinus Amori,
and all dangers will be kept on Mare Marginis;
we will keep you whole,”

because love down on Earth leaves a bitter scent in the air,
tangles arms and legs into unforgivable knots
that when are finally untied, leave so damaged

love on this earth likes to fly in and out of open windows,
to kiss the cold, and ripen on dusky trees

on this Earth, love attaches itself to the hip of someone else’s broken heart
and the ones that harbor these ill fated cracks
write in dimly lit rooms behind shattered rose colored glasses,

whilst the Moon hums:
“Read me every sad song,
every turgid discourse
and I will love them as I do you,
my sweet and star crossed son.”