Unconditional

At the sharp edge of the waning moon,
cast onto the surface of Silver Lake,
I watch my loneliness
reach out to embrace
the idea of a lover
who might dive in
on the other side of this blackness
and find me sitting here
waiting for all this emptiness
to disappear as easily as drowning.

I have become the moon
who foolishly rises with hope
into the skies looking at all that might be
only to find myself used up,
slowly lost in the sea of stars
until I am unseen,
invisible to the caresses
of truth and gentle love.

I am, after all, unconditional
in my ways,
and always dance
with my hand
held lightly
over the heart
of my partner
in this tango
that weaves the soul tightly
to the causes of flesh
and joy that rises up
like tides
pulled by the forces
of the singing moon.

I am, after all,
hung over from the excesses
of this celebration
I was not invited to.
I am recovering
from the spaces between
birth and the place of all
knowing.

Sitting still
I wait for the next breath
to rescue me from hooting owls
and the deep repetition
of ancient, howling loons
before sleep laps up
onto the empty shore.