Satelites

You are the moon pulling me
In an inexorable tide.
Waxing in revelations of
Clarity and brilliance.
Waning into a thin hard blade.
But that sickle can't cut
Because I know the face that is turned away,
And where to watch for its return.
We are twin satellites.
Each descriptive of the other's orbit.
Each ebbing before the other's flow.