fucking filth

the moon’s voicemail is full again. seventeen new calls just in the past hour, all asking: are you awake? and i think if she could call back, she’d say: i’d never want to miss you. but she’s a strung bead in the sky. tied to eternity of observance. in quiet voyeurism she listens and hears: the screeches of a car, a pregnancy reveal, a mother asking for forgiveness, the sound of someone washing the dishes like it’ll sanctify them. you think she’s tired? that the closest touch is the crawl of the waves? that the only embrace she will give us is a water’s crash? nobody to ask her how she’s doing. but if they did, she really couldn’t say anything back. the voicemail piles up. but if she could, could raise that crackling receiver to her cratered cheek, i think she’d say something soft like her tidewater. something that goes a little like this: