There was a Luna moth on the gravel,
stiller than the floating specks of light
warming up the air around us

A night when we should have kissed,
the water lapping toes in hemp shoes, 
I put your arm around me, and you
took a photograph memory of the feeling

Neither of us were psychics but there was something
in the air that made the fishing line
holding us together grow stronger 
more like a minty floss
whose fibers beg to be used

Now we’ve cut our teeth in practiced ways
on others who shaped points into daggers
and dulled edges in need

How could we have known
that the thread between us would grow
into a fisherman’s knot of a particular strength
Had you seen it written in the wings of that moth,
would you have stepped forward
and grabbed my face like you do now?

When we go back
the delicate wings covered up
by the heavy humming of cicadas,
I hope you know

I wouldn’t change a thing