When the moon phases through its cycle, do you track the tides?

I do. Swiftly, with a pen arched through constellation

of me forgetting memories of how a sky can forget

because the sky ages too, meaning

comes, when one knows how not to look up

and tonight the new moon, speaks

with my head buried on my desk — drenched

in the sweat of yesterday's list. What waits

are the longing clouds that scribbles... regrets

are half-moons themselves, slivers

slithers the silver-fingers on asking — how

will we move forward? What can I

reminisce under our stars — Bravery, on-palms

Did you remember to call your mother at the end of the world?