Novel

And you waned as quickly
as you waxed, my dear. You
were as bright as the moon
and as warm as the sun on
my face, the morning I first
learned you were on your
way, but now you're so far
from me. My belly tells the
story but no more is being
written. The pages have
stopped turning, and the
pen has been put down,
but my dear, you've been
etched on my heart, scarred
to the inside of my stomach,
engraved in my eyes with
every sight of you, I've seen
your name in my mind,
heard your voice in my ears
and held your hand, in my own.
Now the only story being
written, my dear, is the one
in which I start my life
again, with no recollection
of the moon or the sun.

And I wonder if I'll ever remember
who I was before I knew you.