How many people think of you
when the moon rises liquid
over mountains? Each night
I say your name out loud
and consider calling after all these years.
I could ask about your artwork. Or your family.
I’m not nostalgic, but I still hold onto that time
you drew me in charcoal, blew out my dust.
You’d laugh then turn serious,
your eyes moving fast between
me and the drawing of me.
Your hands were almost black when you
covered me in blankets and led me outside.
Cold, but close together, we stared
at the sky, pointed out stars.
There were so many
that night without a moon.
You whispered to me about galaxies
as the drawing, your picture of me,
was inside, leaning against the kitchen table
with the small light on.
