on mooring days, when i wake to the sound of freshly brewed coffee
pumping through the atmosphere, i turn and look at the spot
where you softly snored, now empty, filled with dust bunnies,
mites. you used to look up at the moonlight, bed head, blanket
fed, wishing for her to come kiss you with her divine blessing.
there’s an old buddhist story about monkeys, about those
foolish enough to look in the depths of ponds and see the
reflection of the moon peeping back at them
it was said that they linked together out of the trees
to grab the moon, their greatest triumph
and one by one
fell
into the water
below the fallen starlight and dapper trees
i used to think those monkeys were so stupid
how could they not see that the mirage in front of them was
just that, a fake blessing
a concept
their own imagination
until
that one night where
you cradled my hand and i peered into the pearly pools of your eyes
and for the briefest moment,
i thought i saw something there
