Midnight

In the eternal recurrence of my heart,
there is a moment that stretches across time
to meet itself over and over. Time, that thing that runs
away and towards us colliding. In the dark
night’s glow, the instant of my hands
on the exposure of your face.
“There is that moment again!” we say rubbing
our respective psychological states. Oh,
this flipping dance of a wrestling match,
your skin sets my palms aflame. No,
this will not be that familiar poem
about longing or the isolation of time;
an amputated clock ticking its phantom tick.
This will be an exaltation of love’s cliché,
a spinning and turning with the half-cry
of your face under the romance of the moon.
The moment of this heart echoes
the heart of this moment, into this love of a poem
that writes, has written and will continue
to remind us that the moon is always full and
we will forever be under its spotlight of time.