Poem: Rooftop in August, 2:30 A.M.

Prove to me the moon exists, she says,
In the middle of an argument about faith.
You can't, so you put your hand in the small of her back
And pull her across the blanket
To kiss her, deeply,
Not because you're overcome by the thought
But because you want her to stop pulling at threads
Of what's real and what's not.