Love / poetry / Poetry / Uncategorized / Writing

Day 83 of 35

Sometimes I pretend
there was moonlight, ample.
That your body
was lit bright.
That my eyes closed
with no other choice.

On other nights,
I remember that it was dark.
That there were no streetlights.
That the stars, smothered
by the clouds,
could not see us,
and all we had was touch.

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