There once was a lesbian named Zoë,
Who was born in a month quite snowy.
She has glasses on her face,
Enjoyed a warm embrace,
And her smile was big and glowy.

I can categorically list the number of times you have been misused, unheard and trivialized. And as much as I might write about you, you are not a metaphorical representation of the moon or the sun, and my pen doesn't help. You are real flesh and bones, and the real you craves for coffee on Sunday summer mornings and likes sitting alone sometimes. You too crave for ***, with people whom you have just met and you also forgot my birthday once. You are not perfect, of course, you are not perfect, but you are not a gross indecency either. You are truly and finally someone I can love and my love demands to be written down on the most beautiful sheets of paper I own. My love demands to be handwritten on postcards that I have collected over the years for this moment and sent over the distances. But you see my love is also a little selfish and narcissistic, and since we are not in a brilliant and beautiful relationship, you are just another story I can tell myself before going to bed. One of those stories that demand to be told again and again.

My writing and Your kindness depend on my misery and these spectators do not care.

And I die.
And I die.
And I die.

You and I
We
are here to look
and celebrate all eternity
in this deafening silence by the sea

Sometimes we laugh,
and sometimes we cry,
after a momentous celebration
of us making love and of these short odd
Dates.

And when you and I are not close together,
We remember these days and moments
and know that life was always so well
that even moon smiled as it saw the stars
Falling down.

"Would you ever fall in love again?"
Never I said. Never he repeated.
And we fell in love again,
Though completely in vain.
Never again."

Let us sit together at the shoreline today. At 3 am in the morning and do nothing, be nothing, whilst we stare at the city lights fade away. Let us sit close together, holding hands, never letting each other go away. You, my lover, have become my poetry from nothing to things that are now taking shapes, though are still ambiguous.

You, my lover, have become me, like something that belongs to me as much as the moonlight belongs to the sun. So promise me, that you will never ask for it back. And I like the moon will shine and burn and burn and shine. Into nothingness.

Fear only your lover for he can leave marks on your body that you'll be able to see even after he is gone. Fear him because you will find him creeping in whispered memories and in old rustic diaries or on your tongue while spinning yarns of facades. You will be able to see his face and point out every detail while looking at the mirror, so fear him, because he'll leave nothing of you for you after he's gone.

But fear him the most for his words, and for the mystic charm, and for love. Sigh. Fear him, darling, Fear him, for him.