Stuffed animals bob back and

forth to potholes and cracks.

leather and wet dog remind me of late nights

like tonight

like the moon, quiet and unreachable

brilliant and shadow-casted

like the moon, unrequited partner.

There’s the airbnb. the lights shine like the lights 6 years ago,

golden hued.

Wants and wounds hide behind masquerading niceties,

collapsing into the earth, heavy like granite,

immovable, stubborn, and swallowed by soil to never face

the light golden hued.

My body remembers the nights

that now like the moon,

I’ll never have.

This night is the last night.

The moon, I will never have.

Is this really it? My shirt sticks to my back.

The end of a chapter,

love dead like a ghost, like the humidity of south bend,

golden hued.