asterism
Yes, it is past midnight on day 30… but, stunningly, I did write this and the following poem before the clock struck 12 after coming home from a concert that made my veins vibrate. A modern Cinderella story.
day 29
there's a single shining thread
tied from your earlobe to
mine, but whether it's red
I couldn't say—
every time I remember
to catch a glimpse of it, the sun
goes down so fast I barely have
time to see the flush fade
from your cheeks before
the rich colors of afternoon bleed
into a muddy pond of deep
evening blues and browns.
still: we're tied.
double-knotted, though
I couldn't say who's kept us
sure. I think, sometimes,
about busying myself with
tugging on the string, but
worry it would hurt
instead of move through
you, gently.