My Moon

She is the moon, a stark whiteness against the dark that surrounds me. Curled up on the sofa with her knees beneath her chin, she chips away at the green on her fingernails and whispers about how I am the stars that surround her. There’s still sleep in her eyes as she watches the sunrise through the net curtains. Then she gets up, her lips pursed as she shrugs herself into that old leather jacket that smells like tobacco and peppermint and swipes her keys from the table. She presses her lips against my forehead with a smile and then she’s gone, leaving a trail of smoke behind her from the cigarette I didn’t even see her light. The moon doesn’t come out in the daytime, after all. She’s needed somewhere else.