Moon at Half Past Noon

You became the living lexicon of light,
a syntax written on the silent air.
Your joy: the sun-thick burst of ambered pear,
a golden gravity that held me there.

Your grief: not salt, but silvered, slow-release—
the patient pearl of a November sea,
that polishes its perpetual mystery
on the cold quartz of a forgotten beach.

Your quiet distance had a certain tone—
the tannic grip of truth on unripe fruit,
a purifying pang, a resonant bone,
that taught the tongue to listen, root by root.

And from your fortitude, a flavor fell
with the clean grit of stone, the chew of bread—
a fundamental taste on which worlds dwell.

Now, my days are brewed in this complex blend,
steeped in your seasons, a sonorous, slow spin.
This is the alchemy without an end:
transmuting all we lose, and all we win,
into a breath we share, deep within.

To live is to have sipped this vintage, pressed
from shared and weathering skin, a sacred yield—
where every note of you becomes my breath,
my rain, my root, my rising from the weld.