Green

for a birthday

Tomorrow, skies will darken around the world.
As for me, I will sit in the park, next to where we live,
but have never visited together, in the green grass
all ready for Spring, but you, like the moon, my
fair-faced friend, have taken the light from me.
Everywhere your name: the poetry in a song,
my self-inflicted intoxication, the traffic lights
separating you from me, the icons on my screen
bearing news from everyone but you. I write you
letters I will never post, poems you will never read,
like this one, coded messages in the day, waiting
for the sun to set and remembering the tidal
pull of your hugs and the warmth of your smile.
But your eyes, they are the shadow, my eclipse,
where I lose myself; I make up songs you will
never hear, I plant flowers I cannot give to you.
And tomorrow I will lie on the grass and let
the shadow overtake me and feel the air chill,
remembering the jazz you let me listen to, and how
guilt smells like the vegetarian stir-fry we made.
I must tell myself: you are a different world,
and all the stars twinkle as much for you
as they no longer do for me.