THE MOORING
There are certain souls,
And you are chief among them my love,
Who become our stars, our suns, our principal satellites.
We moor ourselves to each other
Like fearful ships in the dark,
Anxious to gift our autonomy in exchange for safety.
We fall into perpetual orbit
Around their delicate shores and innermost seas.
Measuring ourselves always,
By the distance from each other.
And soon forget how black and immeasurable
Was the night sky before this.