moonwatching

if our friendship could be described
in a single object,
then we were not friends.
our history is at most a shelf of things,
and at the very least a table that
i've forgotten to clean up over the past
month, but i can still probably find
that notebook we both wrote in
so we didn't have to pass notes, or
the shirt of comfort you gave me
where, on its laundry tag, the warning
signs of us: "do not split" "do not wash"
"do not leave in a hot or humid place"
"do not wear for too long (to be debated)
(to be discussed after lunch)"

point is, i was cleaning it up this evening
and thought, "this box that was full is not
as heavy" and wanted to text you to say
maybe i've finally grown up like you
wanted me to, but then i noticed that
the box was not full because when
you left you took half of me, and
no one would ever do something as stupid
as listen if i tell them i can carry some
part of them too, would they?

point is, i wanted to tell you that
dinner was great tonight. the diner
still serves its pancakes the way you liked them
and the busker still plays your song, but
when i go to the pier and walk to the end
and stare down and peer to the side of me
i don't see your glare or the glare of your phone
while you're texting for everyone else to come

that's on me now, right now
can you step outside for me?
i heard the moon tonight
it's going to be so
damn
bright.