Nocturne in D

At three AM the dark thickens
and becomes almost edible.
Hard to breathe, though. You lie

in self-absorbed sleep while
the ceiling and roof disappear
and the naked stars peer down.

I’ve dreaded this moment
of exposure. The sky expands,
the earth under me vanishes.

The dark is so thick despite
the starlight I can’t swallow
without chewing, but my teeth

are pebbles in a shallow brook,
my open mouth the entrance
to a cut-rate version of Hell.

You stir a little and sigh
in memory of all memories.
I want to wake you but

we’ve drifted a thousand miles
apart. Our mutual radiance
dispersed without illuminating

the places we used to love when
love was an option always
available without tears.