Staircase to the Moon

A staircase in the night. 

New moons cover each step. 

Their bright futures unable to break through, 

hidden behind the shadow of black paint. 

We support ourselves with their potential as we sit down,

with our tears pulled down against their will 

— must be the gravity of the satellites. 

The debris from the everyday regimen:

crumbs from a half-eaten Oreo, 

a blue medical mask with a snapped strap,

and a scratched pencil with a broken tip,

exist in and around the space of the moons. 

One of my hands is holding you close to me. 

The other pushes into a step. 

The round edges of each invisible circle leave craters in my hand. 

I lean into them. 

You lean into me. 

The eyes that picked me, stare up.

Past the ceiling of the back staircase, 

through the blocks of cinder, you see 

velvet blue with yellow specks of glitter.  

You desperately want me to see it too.

But I cannot see 

velvet blue with yellow specks of glitter. 

I see blocks of cinder. 

You continue to weep, 

and I wish I could do the same.