Moon at Half Past Noon

Your hands, my first sky—warm and wide and wise,
Map constellations where my small fist lies.
This lap, a comet’s pause mid-flight,
Yet in your eyes, whole galaxies ignite.

You offer milk-white moons to calm my cry, 
But space gnaws deeper—black and vast and sly.
"What breast could fill the sea that birthed the shore?"
The silence thrums what love cannot restore. 

Not yours this face that dawns like breaking spheres,
Not mine the name that chains me to these years.
The mirror spins—a thousand borrowed skins, 
While roots drink night where every Self begins. 

The cradle burns. The stars bend low to say: 
You were the wound where light first learned to stay.