A Letter From The Moon

Late, and I sit with music on (not 80’s for once), a glass of whisky (water of life) to hand, and I try to write. The diary done for today, only a short entry, and a few pages of poetry sketches. In these quiet periods, when the music reaches into the storms of my mind and works its magic, I almost don’t mind my situation.

Almost. It’s at these times when I most feel the distance between us, when I wish I could move the decimal point: 75 miles to 7.5. On these occasions, I might as well be on the moon and she on the blue planet, me looking down on its oceans, clouds, poles, storms and landmasses. I feel like a monk here. Or perhaps a prisoner would be a better analogy as I’m not here willingly. She is there and I am here. We cannot speak as my phone does not work and the trains have stopped for the day. Tomorrow? That’s an aeon away. I have my poem fragments and her silver-framed picture. I must content myself with that. But it’s not enough.

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