Sometimes I still think of you
Sometimes, but not frequent enough for me to recall the way you used to look at me
Which should be, but isn't important
But now you're scattered in my 2 AM thoughts because the memory of you is a lit flame and my mind is saturated in gasoline
I recall the way you used to look at me.
Like I was the moon,
your moon.
Was.
You would notice all the imperfections of the splintered moon and still try to convince it it was a sight for sore eyes.
I still remember that late winter night we lay together on your rooftop and looked at the sky.
You told me you thought the sight of the infinite universe was simply breathtaking.
I'll never forget that.
Then you told me ever so calmly that you hated the darkness.
I'll never forget that either.
Now I'm wondering: how could you have loved me if you can't stand darkness?
I am no different.
I was your moon who lived in a dark sky,
I was your light when the world around you turned black,
But thinking back now,
I also, like the moon, was useless to you among the sun.
Maybe I was your darkness, maybe I still am.