He said she was the moon and the stars.
               He told her this for half a century. 

So when she left,
               his heart which had entwined with hers                               
			was ripped from a vine of veins.

 The breath they shared –								               
	he breathing in as she breathed out –
                               became the still, humid air of an August day. 

Their minds that had woven together,
               so each could finish the other’s thought,
                               came apart like a torn carpet, 

the colored threads ragged and dangling,
               and his became one long question. 

Yet through all this,
               the moon and stars were still there.
                               So when he left, only weeks later, 

he pocketed the stars
               and carried the moon under his arm
                               like a rocky beach ball, 

as though she’d asked him one last favor –
               would he bring them with him,
                               if he was coming soon anyway?

03/31/2008

Author's Note: Featured in the anthology Poetry Ink published by Moonstone Press, March 2008.

Posted on 03/31/2008
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt