remembering the moon

I’m sure at some point I will stop being such a neurotic freak. This point can happen any day now. I’d like it to happen tonight, actually. But I might be asking for too much.

Tonight Brina invited me over to do my laundry and have dinner. She made amazing brownies with caramel candies inside. We watched more “Invader Zim” episodes and talked. The consensus is that I am being ridiculous and paranoid about the MSG, and I need to just chill out and not worry about it. Then I got home and had a short chat with him on IM and, indeed, there is nothing to worry about. I’m projecting and being a big dork.

And now, a poetry break, for Ityllux:

“It seems I’m always getting wet around you,” I laughed, and you pretended to be shocked. The park bench was covered in dew, and I am fond of innuendo. And fond of you.

I know I am supposed to remember what the moon looks like when it is waning, when it is waxing. Instead I just remember what it looks like when it is so bright I can see the side of your face, your half-smile, a little pain wrapped around a lot of living. At two o’clock, I will have to leave, but for now I lay back on the bench and smell your clove, your voice soft, vying for focus with the lapping bay. I keep looking for the shooting stars.

“As I get older, I realize I know less and less.” Again, we’re laughing, your dark car sliding back home through pockets of moonlight and glimpses of water. When we slipped into this comfortable space, I do not know. I do not remember what you looked like as a stranger. My arm slung round your shoulders as you speak, and you are going to be okay. We are already okay.

β€” Halsted M. Bernard

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.