Your Eye from Heaven

The moon peeks through the window —

one eye opened to the world.

I close mine, put a thumb over the light

and it disappears as I think of you

on the other side of the Universe

doing exactly the same, smiling

at my childlike gestures.

I switch hands,

winking quickly,

blocking the light with me,

manipulating it to go left,

right and back to you

pretending to play ping-pong

through the cosmos.

I caress the left side of the bed,

white sheets illuminating the emptiness

as bright as the moon.

Where would we be on such a night

if we could magically reunite

through this place and there?

Would you be here or, I,

on the other side of wonderland?

I open both eyes,

focus on the shadows of trees,

the wind blowing gently,

water dancing to the

twinkles of midnight diamonds.

I miss you in my lack of sleep,

the energy from gravitational pull,

the anxiety from dead memories,

but thoughts pour out

through carefully chosen tears

radiating from Eternity,

masquerading as your touch

on my hands and cheeks.

Every month I search for you

while following the giant eye

in the night sky.

Every so often clouds form closure

and I find you winking from that

other place you now call home.

12 thoughts on “Your Eye from Heaven

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