Moon at Half Past Noon

We were a wild, woven garden,
all tangled scent and untamed bloom,
where every thorn proved life.

We learned the art of gentle pruning,
each cut made to grant the air
for separate sun, for different light.

You saved your best joke for the drive,
but I was tracing a plot in my mind,
the radio on a frequency you couldn’t find.

I learned the taste of tea, brewed dark and deep—
a bitter steam that couldn’t quite erase
the sinister aftretaste of sugar in my cup.

What we built became a silent museum,
a hall of unspoken things.
We linger there, the only two souls,
reading different lines from the same faded card,
beneath the glass that holds a shattered vase…