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Under our half of the moon,
your hand found mine
in the dark
and held it
until it was time
for our senses to awaken,
and told me
the deconstructed messages
of the shadows blended
into a single shade
of silence—
how “Thank you” and
“I’m sorry” and
“I promise” and “Wait”
and “Look at me”
are tricks of the light
because, like the night
that is only always
a breath and a brush
away from morning,
nocturnal flesh conjoined
with the throbbing pulse
of daybreak through
the white bones
of midnight
and the brusque hands
of the alarm clock,
our intentions are coupled
onto our souls
and to ones
like us
who will find each other
again when the sun rises,
albeit a little disheveled
and with thoughts undone,
words are not needed,
not those that are meant
to be heard
because love
has other agents,
for instance, a touch
that holds on
through complex dreams
and inert bodies
turning in sleep
and the soft jumble
of pillows and sheets
that will not get
in the way of unspoken,
sacred understanding.

“The Moon in the Window”
by photographer Joseba Herrero


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