Poem - "Moon in My Monitor"

Moon in My Monitor

Wren Greyson

Photo by Connor McManus, from Pexels

The furthest one holds my hand

the tightest in the rings sitting on our fingers,

poised for conversation and stuttered responses.

The slide of this guitar and varnish

replicate him to my skin.

This mirror reflects him sometimes,

at 3 AM when the lights flicker

in the corner of my eyes and

I feel his hands wrap around

the back of my neck.

 

I know he hugs this

way and smells this

way, stands like this and

pulls gloves off like this,

with sharp teeth. The dawn looks

like him

when the peach pink clouds peel apart.

The sun and brash winds sound like him

in their rook

wing

beats.

 

Every bruise feels like him when

I can’t remember where they’re from;

I like to pretend they’re from him

so he’ll kiss each one,

smile and apologise, even though

we know they’re not his.

The keyboard clicks

down the hallway sound like him,

sharp and clear. Loud laughter cuts out

over my speakers, and I wonder

what he sounds like

in full.

 

Every piece of him collects in my palms

to be moulded into a muse

I’ve never touched.

My hallowed cusp, present in the daytime

to worship the Sun and stars with me.

He waxes and wanes in my mind’s eye,

sometimes near enough; I feel his heart

sync with my own,

but often so far I feel closer

to flying than to holding his hand.

First published in 2022 by Ulster University's Paperclip