You would stand in front of the window, naked and raw,
Black tears still stained down your face.
The moon's light doesn't quite frame you the same as it used to.
You think of the days of being illuminated and bright.
Of sunlight dripping off of you as your hands touched
Someone new, someone deserving, someone else.
Nothing since has ever felt as real, as true.
This light has traveled from a quarter-million miles away
To accuse you, cold and pale, cloying to your skin.
Feb 23, 2021
Feb 23, 2021 at 8:34 PM UTC
You would stand in front of the window, naked and raw,
Black tears still stained down your face.
The moon's light doesn't quite frame you the same as it used to.
You think of the days of being illuminated and bright.
Of sunlight dripping off of you as your hands touched
Someone new, someone deserving, someone else.
Nothing since has ever felt as real, as true.
This light has traveled from a quarter-million miles away
To accuse you, cold and pale, cloying to your skin.