I Might Miss You

Some tomb-dark night,

when the stars seem perilously close

and the moon hangs like blame,

I might miss you.

But then, I’ve roamed

the gaps in the constellations

and found the cold delightful.

I’ve set foot on our fickle satellite

and planted my own fucking flag

which I kissed before soaring back home.

For that matter, I won a staring contest

against the sun with retinas in-tact,

and the sun flared and glared for days.

I might miss you.

But, my erstwhile dear,

don’t count on it.