Waning Crescent

Your fingers stitch my slit skin
while I writhe for the curve of your spine
spin into your rotation. Torn.
Deformed. Topography conquered
I am a shadow of self,
hopeless satellite
waning in distance, wanting you here.
In this synchronous absence I scythe myself
asking you to piece me together, as you do
each time, before I place shards of glass into your hands
telling you to rip these sutures, love
because this is how the moon orbits
the earth, elliptical

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