Not All The Time

 
Something. Sometimes.
And then, not much.
Sometimes, reached for, and
sometimes, untouched, unspoken,
inconstant, undone...
sometimes, the moon,
...then pushed away
by the sun;
and yet;
here,
and bringing,
only love,
never waxing, nor waning,
it fits
like a glove of
satin, a tender caress,
one hour: more
the next; less, than ever,
made small
un-needed,
footprints in a soul and a heart:
bleeding,
when it is not
quietly
sleeping,
in the warmth
of an honest embrace - when
it cannot, smile
and press it's face,
to the safety,
of a rhythmic chest...
breathing calmly, in a feather-bed
nest,
as certain
as the stars will shine...
given,
over
wholly,
to something
that need not
be defined.