The light is going out by inches.
We used to be full moon,
everything spilled over the edges.
Now it’s late waning,
and we move around each other
like furniture in the dark
so we don’t bump.
Conversations are weather reports.
“Did you eat.”
“Traffic was bad.”
The big things sit
in the middle of the room
and we both pretend not to see them.
Affection feels like a habit
we’re forgetting.
We still text “goodnight”
but it lands quiet,
like closing a door soft
so it doesn’t wake anyone.
It’s not one fight that killed it.
It’s all the small moons we missed.
The times I needed you to stay
and you left early.
The times you needed me to listen
and I was already planning my reply.
Love hasn’t left the house,
it’s just sitting in a different room
with the lights off.
Maybe it can come back.
Sometimes a new moon
is just a pause
before it grows again.
And sometimes it’s the sky
telling you that this cycle is done.
Either way,
I’m tired of orbiting
a version of us
that only exists in old photos.
