323/365: That Moon

I swam into the little fish that was in his eye,
the spot in it that swam up
and flashed silver under the night sky
when he looked at moonrise.
See that there?
Not even this thing that happens every night
is the same every time.
That, 
his cigarette punched the black,
THAT didn't happen for the fucking Egyptians.
That moon's turned just a bit different,
like it's flirting with you
for tonight only.
His cherry syncopated against the satellite
as he pressed his gaze into me.
I need to know that you see this, too,
he said,
because this is how it all works,
all of it,
and I can't be alone.

#365poems at Schmutzie.com