Hello Blue Moon!

Hello Blue Moon!
Will I see you next Sunday
at the edge of another Monday?

In a maddening way
you’ll miss my voice
your annoying rhythms
syncing to my surprise
at seeing your name
on my ambient phone screen
appropriately enough
two blue ticks- a welcome presence
for a blue bird
looking to nest
inside a frost bitten chest.
I will wait for you
to ask
how my week went
and if I displayed any
unusual strength
in a brawl
with the world at large
or if I succumbed
like an expired coupon
at the Supermarket
way past my usefulness
hurtling towards
a drawer full
of things
past their prime
at the bottom of
a pile of visiting cards
and untouched mail
waiting to be found
by the next best thing.

But a cicada is
as a cicada does
the last 23 years
haven’t been much different
I still haven’t learnt
how to make small talk and
I still wait
for Sunday to end
so our conversations that began
the week before last
could finally finish
without leaving room
for any further reprise
or uncomfortable discourses
on why I’m a complete mess
or if there is an alternative
to living without hope
that doesn’t involve
motley acts of courage
dispersed randomly
across our lives
on the cusp
of untrammeled stress.

An opportunity
is being waited upon
for a door that doesn’t
open into the night
without your awkward presence
in my house
our house
the house where we’ll
let our feet wander
onto warm and wet floors
without fear
of falling down
or hurting ourselves
the house
where we’ll build
upon the unfinished
structures that
now lie in decay
amidst a flurry of words
that don’t actually mean
anything, except that
they are yours,
and I’m prone to bias
when crushed under
the weight
of neon-lit love.

Hello Blue Moon!
I hope to see you next Sunday
at the edge of another Monday.

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