I’ve loved you all my waking life.
and it’s rare like atmospheric
crystal rainbow clouds, in the night
catching the moon’s light. Called moon-dogs.
Though rareness isn’t a good sign –
rare diseases are rare, okay,
but I’m trying to find something
like a mock moon has its anchor –
I see your hesitancy through
your 22° halo –
Could we after all have found more
in others. Could is a puzzle,
and I’ve loved you, my waking life.
The tautology has my throat –
like a jet necklace. And the joy
you bring me has long years in it.
We are vintage. We can say that,
and others cannot. Exclusive
isn’t necessarily good,
okay… But the world falls away
when you laugh, or you say my name.
And that’s not good either, okay,
or is it. You are my chapel!
my holy book! my holiday!