Lost Light

We sat under the stars, basking in all forms of light:

starlight

moonlight

porch light.

And with all these lights combined, I could make out pieces of him:

a collection of curls,

hints of slowly growing stubble,

tired eyes,

worried eyes.

I pointed to the moon,

asked if he saw a rabbit or man.

He just laughed weakly,

to humor me.

I asked him about Petunia, his devilish dog.

"How is that dog?"

He offered nothing more than a "fine."

"Remember that time she stuck her head in the fish bowl and your sister was crying and begging us to save her fish?"

I laughed, hoping it'd be infectious.

He smiled, but it didn't seem to touch his eyes.

"Ooh. Remember-"

"Stop."

Silence fell between us,

but the world kept speaking:

the dogs kept barking,

the cicadas kept shouting,

the neighbors kept arguing.

"No more," he said.

"I can't do this anymore."

"Why?"

He turned his tired, sad eyes to mine, filled with tears.

"Because I'd be lying to both of us if we continued this any longer."

He kissed the top of my head,

hopped over the fence,

left me to sort out these thoughts.

Then the porch lights turned off,

and the moon light didn't seem so bright,

and the stars were blocked by clouds of gray,

and I wondered what I did to drive him away.