it’s in the early morning that you strike me:
when the moon is sleeping just beneath the horizon
and the dew-heavy grass soaks my shoes
and the mist sticks to my skin—
it is then that i can hear your voice most clearly,
slipping through the air,
a breath of winter frost caught at the verge of dawn.
you’ve tumbled off the edge of the world
and are calling in the dim light to come home,
back to a land that rests barren.
you’ve fallen to ruin under the weight of the sky
as you play Atlas,
as i play Zeus.
the morning sun has forgotten what you look like;
so have i.