A Curious Moon

By David Williamson

Virgo 𖤓 | Virgo ⏾ | Capricorn ↑

i cradle my thumb, it was jammed between
a softball and the afternoon glare.
your sorry’s and sunrays
still throb with the bruise.

you apologize, not for your aim,
but for love poems whispered
in fleeting glances, for too few
cootie catchers and origami hearts,
for sunset gossip unable
to set the air alight, for our embraces

fading to dusk.

tonight, you shut your diary
behind me, fold the corner of a page
to mark an entry unwritten.
pen nestled in the bruise,
i comb through your every word,
fill the spaces between with
brunchtime tales tumbling
through giggles and tears,
and lyrics to our karaoke duets.
your wrong notes
turn the sky gold.

the ink runs dry,
but i press harder,
until my words tear
through paper and skin,
until you swear you see my hand
on the other side of the sun,
reaching out, for a wayward throw
or one more ray of your light.

David is a mathematician and a writer. His published works include short stories, “Our Last Dance”, (The First Line 2024), “The Last of a Flock” (50-Word Stories 2025), “All the Wrong Words” (Bellingham Review 2025) and essays, “Yeah, No More Throwing” (The Twin Bill 2025) and “Just Do the Math” (Porcupine Literary 2026).