Clarity

The moon reminds me of you - not daily, but on occasion, when it sits low on the horizon, deceptively vast, I can see you, childlike, staring up at it.

I wonder, do you know? The way I admire your depth, your ability to wear your heart, so naturally, on your sleeve. How did you come this far unscathed? By the numbing and cynicism to which most of us yield.

Why did you look at me that way, that day, in the coffee shop - so warmly, that the darkness I'd been drowning in for months was harnessed, momentarily, back to low tide?

I can't decide whether the cruelest curse of being is to be blind to the inner worlds of others or to be blind to your own. What I would give for a moment of clarity in either regard.

"What do you want? Comaraderie? More?" I ask myself, before your voice jaunts me back to the present. I want to touch your hands, your face, your hair - well, I guess that settles that.