I’m Writing A Poem About The Night

its light cast a frightening blue over 
fine print never proofread, a contract 
up for renewal. Language long dead  

revived by a crescent moon: You fled 
a prison of promises set in a blemish
on a precious stone. Vows tying you 

down, until now. I’m debating how
to capture the moment you left home,                      
a question as much for me as for you,  

alone: if I personify your eyes seeking              
asylum in a sapphire sky, would it do          
for a try at describing when I knew  

you were mine? Or is there no way 
to convey when you crossed the line?