From where I lie, the Moon stares back
whilst I remain in the arms of the one
whom lays claim to the untarnished title
of my first love. Legs ensnared and arms
encasing waists, my eyes and mind are
free to roam and wander despite
body and amore remaining entombed.
The Moon whispers tales about all their travels
all the wonders it has seen. Helping me sleep
with bedtime stories of the Pyramids of Egypt,
or the Great Wall of China. But of everything that
I wish to know that can inspire awe and amazement,
there is only one phenomenon that I care so deeply about…
My family back home.
I miss those who were there for me,
the moment I was a mewling mess in
a tentative mothering hold on the day
of my birth. Who bandaged scrapes and soothed
bumped heads. Who held my hand during scary
check-ups and cheered me on at first games.
Cheerleader. Taxi driver. Carer. Teacher.
Perhaps merely hours away, not days,
but those days stretch out before me until
I can next see them again, like the ocean would
to a stranded sailor who dreams of sanctuary.
Happiness is found here, in the arms of my
First Love, but I miss the comforting hold of
those who have the same blood as me.
The moon can provide me with many things,
a sliver of hope, a silver guiding light, a perspective
of the night. But I want something the moon is unable
to give to me and that would be my family,
about whom I wish the moon’s tales were only about.