Just In Case

by Corinne Caraway

I ripped holes across the sky for you.

I regret that now because the planet is dying, 

and well, there’s a draft. 

Now everything is getting warmer except for me, 

but you said you needed space.

Shame on me, I guess, for taking you too seriously.

It’s just, all I could think about was giving you the moon. 

How I wanted to peel it apart like an afternoon orange,

and offer it up in slices for you to eat from my hands. 

Not that you’ve ever eaten anything from my hands. 

Not that you’re even interested in the moon. 

Not that you, well, you know. 

And yet here I sit under incomplete constellations,

shivering against your entropy in the dark,

surprised by my ability to ruin in the name of hope.

But why should I be surprised — 

I tear leaves from their branches without asking

just so I have something to hold on the walk home.

There’s something to the way we reach for comfort

without first considering what it will cost, 

that instinct to narrow loves down to what they can offer. 

But how can anything be offered when we don’t

take the time to say what we really need?

What is loving if not giving each other the chance to come close?

All I really wanted was to come close.  

I ripped holes across the sky for you,

and I regret that now because there is too much space. 

But I left the moon to look after you, you know, just in case.