The rusty eclipse felt like a secret.
I did not hear the other doors on my road opening and slamming shut.
I did not hear neighbors shivering, stomping, or muttering about the cold.
Maybe the houses are just a shade too far apart.
The inches that stretch into feet,
Property lines that divide our experiences, shut our mouths,
Walls, and trajectories of vision and sound where walls can't be built,
We avert our eyes and ears to be polite.
We create those walls in stores,
And on the street, we don't ask questions or reach for strangers' hands,
Or take off our sunglasses when our eyes run, or even ask quietly for a napkin,
To wipe our tears or scribble down our stories.
Dozens of stories, living, dying.
Last night, breathing heavy, circling, and threatening to tell themselves.
This impossible task to catalog or recreate the infinity of inside spaces,
Where eyes turned up as the moon went red.
Like the stories we choose to tell,
Or those we omit when keeping certain company, this will be forgotten.
The night we all saw the moon, bone white hanging on some invisible string,
Until all the stories housed here,
Gave it blood and tinged its surface.
Like remembering colors my cheeks
The moon dripped secrets.
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