Sacred

Some things are sacred.
Like the time I touched your tooth
Or you put your palm on my scar for two seconds too long.
Or me seeing your feet in new socks,
Two blue crescents I wanted to rub against my face.

It feels wrong to lay them out here
like tools in a physician's office, waiting to excise a thing.

I'd rather expose them like leaves no longer kept inside branches.

And leaves? What do they do but change?

Me, you, breathing.

I try hard to pay attention like before you, but I am losing.

You are not, so I am happy.

Maybe here,
under a different moon, I can let the sacred fall, soft and magnificent
so my branches don't ache from emptiness.

Maybe I can grow a thing from the fall out.