There have been lovers.

One of you is already dead.

Why do we love the moon?

Desolate, silver and distant.

Is it because, in darkness,

it casts a clear light in the void

amongst the vast coldness of stars?

A symbol of hope.

Where is love?

They call it the great unravelment,

I heard it said.

Time’s running backwards

Here

In my head.

The things that were done and not done.

Yes. Those things that were done all repeated.

There by the fire,

In the bed,

In the kitchen,

Out on the windswept ledge.

You like to walk alone.

So do I.

But isn’t it strange

how social you are,

approachable,

with everyone else, except me.

I remember the good days.

I do.

But isn’t it strange how often they end

with a punch to the jaw.

Metaphysical, metaphorical, physical,

It all hurts the same.

Neglected or bullied, it’s all disrespectful.

It’s ended now.

It’s my time

for the unravelling

of all that’s been said and been done.

Where was love?

I am here.

You are gone.

I sit at bare tables.

Scrubbed.

You are defined in the spotlight.

Defunct.

I watch every night in my dreams

as you come

one after one after one.

I watch and I am.

You are unravelled.

I am.

And then the children keep coming.

More and more, every night.

Some are not real.

I wonder, were they unborn.

I keep on loving you.

You, yes, you.

I ask myself why.

For a few precious moments of closeness.

Perhaps.

But it always unravels.

That’s as clear as the moon.

Yes, it’s time to unravel.

I am.

I will be able to sleep.

When the moon wanes, you’ll be gone.