Moon at Half Past Noon

The phone buzzes on the linen, sharp and bright,
A name he once spoke in some forgotten night.
Not wife, not mother, not a friend I know,
But just a name from a lifetime ago.
My heart, a fossil in this hollow room,
Assumes his rhythm, chases away the gloom
For one cracked second, till the truth descends,
And on the old, cold stone, my spirit mends.

I read your text. It’s bold, and young, and warm,
A declaration meant to weather storm.
You speak of feelings you have held so late,
Of “what could be” and some impending fate.
And oh, the cruelty of a signal’s flight,
To bring your sun into my endless night.
A bitter salt stings deep behind my eyes,
For the future that you promised, and he denies.

But wait. The anger is a fleeting guest.
Your words were meant for him, and I am blessed
To be the only one who hears them now,
To feel his echo in the vow you vow.
They are not yours anymore, do you see?
They are a final, tender gift to me.
Your love, arrived upon this empty wire,
Has fanned a fading, solitary fire.

So I will answer. Not to wound or scold,
Though jealousy, a serpent, briefly coiled.
This was my man, the wounded creature cried,
Till memory of his laughter, warm and wide,
Unspooled the knot. I’ll weave your new love in,
And make of separate sorrows, thicker skin.
My fingers, trembling, trace upon the glass,
A message meant for grief and grace to pass.

“He would have smiled to read your words, I think,
And maybe bought you both a lengthy drink.
He kept his heart here, with me, to the end,
But thank you for the love you chose to send.

He’s gone. Two years this autumn. The oak tree
He never finished planting, shelters me.
He hated marmalade, but loved the toast,
And always claimed my coffee was a boast.
He snored a little symphony at dawn,
And left his socks upon the floor, now gone.
These are the things I hold, the small and true,
I share them, stranger, now with you.

Your message came. It found his empty space.
It lit his shadow for a moment’s grace.
It spoke his name, and made him briefly near.
For that, I thank you, though I weep it here.
Your love for him is now a part of mine,
A vintage I was not meant to taste, yet fine.
I press your words inside this book of years,
A bittersweet harvest of unshed tears.

Be well. Be happy. Speak his name aloud.
He was the man of whom I was so proud.
And though your future with him is bereft,
Your past with him is a gift I have left.”

I press ‘send’. The little tick turns blue.
A message sent to someone wholly new.
I’ve given her his death, she’s given me
A proof he was so loved, so wild, so free.
The phone grows dark. I hold it to my chest,
A strange and tender thief, now truly blessed.