I held her close, but she faded in the night, like a poem I meant to write.

It was hot, and the fluorescent outline of the phone shimmered like
A radioactive tattoo on her bare shoulder. Both of them
Shallowly breathing. Nestled close
As though protecting
A hurt winged bird.

If hurt winged birds had parachutes or lifelines
They would reach for them
The way her hands
Reached for his.

The tenderness stung. She tried to shrug it off
And laughed a lot. In between
The tongues and tangled legs
She did not cry.

In the glowing point of the afterwards cigarette
She could already see him leaving, couched in the loss
That threatened her everyday, the way the loss of the moon
Threatens a child.