There is light from overhead.
And there is full-moon light
that leaks through your walls.
Light that seeps through your clothes
and worms in your thoughts.
A thing
so silent and sly
we were made
to feel
it was us —not it
that made our choices.
We are
both so much water.
We are of
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the same water
that had been
convinced once
that it too
was master
of its own destiny.
But like every moon-tugged tide
that rises and
retreats back
into its familiar sea
we continue to believe
that tomorrow’s moon
will be just another
light from overhead.
