Moon, loosening gasp

you really are gone

Aren’t you, my dear Jane,

I think I was in a shock when you said you must go,

And hoped it was not true,

But I see that picture in my mind

Of your loosening breath, eyes so wide and like the moon and stars,

Of your pain so deep and wide.

Every time

I barely glance upon the moon,

Either dusted with a glazed green cloud,

A full darling, dead sun that canvasses the painted looming dark,

And I feel my own breath loosening

Eyes as wide as saucers,

And I am a man who is impatient and flawed, yes,

Sinking into my sorrow of grief

To miss my dearest Jane so deeply

To feel it every second of each hourly design, of mortal grace and less patience affording me,

Do you feel the same as you look upon the dusted moon?

Yours, Edward Rochester