Looking at the sky

last night I sat on the roof

with a warm beer

and a cigarette that kept going out.

I looked at the moon,

that old gossip who sees it all,

and I said:

“hey, you who knows so much,

where the hell is she?

tell her I miss her.”

the moon said nothing,

just slipped a little further

behind a gray cloud.

this morning,

I talked to the sun,

with eyes wrecked from no sleep,

and I said:

“if you see her

crossing a street,

reading on a bench,

or smiling like she used to,

tell her I’m still here waiting

in this wreck of a man that’s left.”

but the sun just burned harder,

like it was telling me

some things even it can’t fix.

so here I am,

talking to the sky

like a madman

who lost his moon,

his sun,

and the only woman

worth cursing for.