tide, moon, and graphite

at night, the white wooden blinds

swell and shrink with the wind;

almost as though they remember

your chest, pressed against mine,

lit by only the stream of daisy pink light

spilling beneath the pearlescent door,

as though they too wish that you

were once again wrapped about me.

if i quiet my breath to only a whisper,

if i will my body to statuesque stillness,

i can almost hear your voice -

carried by the smell after rain,

in that wistful way our lips

remember the taste,

your question sings:

why did you fall out of love

and heartfully, achingly, i answer:

did you ever love me at all