One Shot of Light, No Chaser

The sun pulls its body up over the horizon

like you used to pull yourself out of that pool

after we’d skinny dip in the naked moonlight.

My face flashes red and I look around,

hoping no one else saw that carnal thought.

But then I remember, the sun looks normal

to everyone else.

Your light looms like a specter in the night

deluding me with the idea you’ll dawn again.

But you can’t be the sun, because while the sun rises,

you only move on a one-way downward track.

You’re the late-night morning-after “call me” note

you left me in the cheap motel room

that smelled of spirits and cigar smoke.

Darkness drapes my body in shades of grey

like the cast of moonlight on the unlit water,

but you’re too dim to fix that.