Through the cracks of my fingers,
Sunlight dances on the pale-green walls,
As quiet as warm coffee
Sipped between lapses of tender conversation.

At night, my white curtains sway like
Lovers in the high school parking lot;
Drunken conversations drift into my floral sheets
From the bar downstairs.

But the light does not dance on the living room walls.
Packing a bag in the temporary darkness, the moon
Forgets his sallow reflection and
Tiptoes to Argentina

The same way that you delicately discarded the
Life you had professed to love
With your rotting palms and kerosine tongue,
When the sun went down.