his shoulders stretch,
just enough for a child’s heart
to rest carefully on the edge of his
His arms are weighted just right, so that
an embrace from him feels like
His hands reconnect wires and heartstrings like he could do it while asleep.
He bleeds his veins into his family.
Into their own tendons.
He pokes and prods at the gates
between here and there. But
he knows his time is not near.
He knows he must stay and whisper
his sweet nothings into the ears of
His three stars.
He is the moon,
Light and dark,
known and unknown,
but never leaving.