Thinking Of You

The moon drags low in the sky,

a bulbous overripe fruit sagging

slackly atop the horizon.

Its tenuous stem of constellations threatens to snap,

with pitted and pocked skin looking fit to rupture

and spill its interior of sour-sweet rot.

I've grown comfortable driving in the shadow

of this bloated creature, this pale midnight specter.

I hardly notice the company, anymore -- after weeks

of late night rendezvous, it has become merely a matter of fact.

You, on the other hand, become more captivating

every time I experience you.

You have seeped beneath my skin and

etched yourself on the back of my eyelids,

and I find myself impatient to get home, close my eyes,

and stare at you while I drift asleep.