This is not the first time I have fallen.
My cheeks are not virgins to the careful
caresses of my tears; there are pockets
of skin that sink
with the gentle weight of a fingertip
simply because they have been weathered by the salty tides of pain
for too long.

This is not the first time I have tasted midnight.
Sometimes, I think the moon cries herself to sleep.
Every night, she sees the same thing-
countless hands stretching their bones
out to touch her
their arms rooted to the ground;
after a while, the absence must grow heavy like an exhausted limb.

There are some things that can not be
forgotten,
like the sound of a voice swelling
just before it leaves you empty
or the feel of the steady drag of a hand
as it pulls away from a palm filled with memories.

This is not the first time I have felt alone,
And the cracks in my walls, from the nights
when I needed to prove that
everything around me was not barren,
remind me that it will not be the last.
Moonlight filters through my window
and sits beside me like a companion.
She understands that all I have ever
needed is something to believe in,
and even though this is not the first time I have fallen,
I do believe this is the first time
I have watched me let go.