For small creatures such as we, the vastness is bearable only through love. 
—Carl Sagan 

Whatever moon there is, is masked by cloud,   
but through its silky screen, that eerie glow 
penetrates my eyelids shuttered tight.  
Daylong rain washed the deep-back sky 
and at some later, sleepy hour, the light 
is bound to break. I like to think it goes 
padding catlike through my dreams, grooming the dirt 
the day sloughed off— peculiar hurt 
and longing that make kin of such as we.
Sometimes we hesitate to name aloud
what wells up from the silent depths of me, 
when the edge of I blurs under the shroud. 
And sometimes there's no name for what we feel, 
despite what other voices may deem real.