from emphatic crayola scribbles on the wall
peering out the window
to the night's direful blackness
where the hollow moon peered back to me
a dry and powdered luminosity
I had never before felt so perceived
than by that of the lifeless moon

I remember nothing before that moment

they say the moon landing killed poetry
but those who came back
all became poets

the moon is gone
and the crescent my fantasy
for so long, never seeing you
the time has finally come
for me to have forgotten your face
when night is risen and moon is full
i imagine you there
your soft, beautiful face
gorgeously round and pointed and soft
the arch of your brow
and your wailing eyes
digging so deep into my own
that in my reflection yours are buried
formed from little craters and debris
historically indifferent
they must be your eyes
i was crying the last time i looked at you
you staring at me, indifferent, remorseful
i am crying now, looking at the moon
it must be you up there
eight months and twelve days
june twenty-eighth
july nineteenth
i hate that i can't remember your face
and i mourn you still
just by looking up
to that same moon
i fear the day that i might see you again
that i may be reminded of your gentleness
that i may hear the nectar of your voice
i can never stop myself from you
can never hold back from admiring you
in my entirety, you, the moon
my only beacon, beloved anchor
but the moon is gone
and the crescent only my fantasy

youth in dying
heaving through childed lungs
to drink is to release in the barren
the tide of the moon's seed
depart of my planting
and live radiating the being
i see her there,
my love, my love
i am guided across our departure
my moon, my moon
the very first sight of my possessed infantry
infatuated with illuminated isolation
loneliness
i felt it in you,
feel it in me
deceitful boldness to candy the night
i am obsessed
**** the light from the sun
and pour unto me
every of your unhinged desires