Her face was heavy as a thundercloud.
Her words fell stiff upon the ground as clay.
Then, finally, she cried this sound aloud:
“I lost my soul somewhere along the way”.
I looked her squarely in her clouded eyes
while hoping hard her windowed soul would show.
But she could only just apologise:
“I’m sorry but you give me vertigo”.
It’s true I mainly live upon the heights,
where air is clean, and ice can crystly form.
But she’s a moon in need of satellites —
her ersatz light could never keep one warm.
Then was her path soon swallowed in a mist.
For only by her absence one is kissed.
© Alan Morrison, 2020