I am not the sun by Mario Duarte

 

Joseph Pacheco, the gardener, stood gazing out the living room window at the intricate vine-like frost scaling the panes. With a crooked finger, he traced out on the delicate curve of her lips. His hands recalled sliding from his wife’s slender shoulders down to her heavy breasts—her white skin glistening in the shimmering pool of moonlight.

 

Sitting in his leather recliner, Joseph took another sip of whiskey from a small glass. Its languid fire burned rolling down his throat warming his stomach. With the sleeve of his shirt, he wiped his wet lips and remembered her hands, delicate fingers rising like white doves, speaking in sentences more intricate and tender than his wooden creations.

 

I am not the sun, the fire is gone, he shouted while the moon’s reflection smoldered on the ancient hallway mirror. I am the old moon in the new moon’s arms.  

Author bio: 
 

Mario Duarte lives in Iowa City, Iowa.   He enjoys walking his dogs at night, growing orchids and poppies, and playing classic rock on his acoustic guitar.  Some recent poetry publications include the Acentos Review, the Bluest Aye, Broken Plate, Huizache, Palabra, Shadowbox, Slab, Steel Toe Review, and Passages North.