Transitory

I will write to you
on every full moon
and every waxing crescent,
until you write back to me in the twilight
as the stars come out
in my eyes and mouth and stomach.

Keep me hidden away
in that quiet part of your mind,
a childhood toy
a forgotten pen pal.

I will write to you
on every winter morning
and in the monochrome of every clouded afternoon,
enveloped in cotton and goose down.

And until each winter turns to summer,
and the sunlit hours stretch out indefinitely
into burn-reddened skin,

keep these tiny fragments whole
and safe.