August 2nd

It’s a date.

It’s a name.

It’s a poem.

It’s a season.

It’s a man.

I can’t help but stare

And feel my fingertips and toes

And ends of my hair fill to the brim

With the moon—which I ate.

He and I obliterate the aching space in between

And tumble down the quick, dark blue

Where stars live.

I didn't know who he would be—

But I swear, I had an inkling.

He is a song.

He is a poem.

He is a name.

He is a man.

He is a world.

For all the world, I've never met someone

So dark, his windows blocked by time and pain.

But I shall, I will be the turning of a life—

Clean & changed & bright we’ll be.

I’ll come with rags in tow, until my hands turn red.

Because August 2^nd

Is a date.

It’s a name.

It’s a poem.

It’s a season.

It’s my heart.

It’s a man.