Piker Press — Weekly Journal of Arts and Literature
April 27, 2026

Apart

When we are apart
the moon stays close to the ground.
The birds try to sing,
but their voices are flat.
I stare at my coffee
until days have passed.
We both look to the sky,
but the tidy map you see,
is, on this side,
an overgrown path.
I can't see to find my way out,
so bring your light
and hurry back.

More by Cheryl Haimann → More poetry → Full issue →
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