The night seems warmer than it ought
But my skin prickles
Is it really a cold night?
I do not think it is a warm night.
The bright, full moon furthers the illusion
Like nighttime’s version of June
Everything illuminated by
An imaginary grimace.
But the moon has no face at all
Only a single lonely flag
Never flapping in the wind.
Six months it has been,
The smile never failing/ceasing to fade
As waking arms reach out to find
No one.
It is certainly not a warm night.
I wish I had remembered a coat.