my moon, my man

the moon is peeping at me through a gap in the clouds, across a meadow of cold and tartan beauty.

i found out last night that he moon we see can never, ever be in the same position again. the man who told me wears a woolen hat, has a grey beard and smokes a pipe. that fact makes night seem clearer, somehow.

making more effort to give my words away and learning plain, pearl, plain, pearl.