New Moon

A cold, rainy, silent day — the best weather. Still, abandoned by the sun can’t because of the clouds, clock ticking silence, silence that sounds like a dull blade skin somewhat trusts a broken heart or breaking, two vital organs fused together, only one is necessary to live, two go toward the New Moon. Tomorrow it’ll be gone. What of me must I owe now to the mornings we’d walk to breakfast, and I’d faintly allow myself to hope one day you wouldn’t secretly want to tame my wild soul, or to the ghost that haunts our first apartment, named before I knew never to name a ghost.

A poem by Nicole Hennessy