He is the moonshine, I the flowered path.
He comes and goes as he sees fit,
while I am set in stone.
He waxes and wanes,
I stay much the same.

I wait for the moon every night,
my path wears down as he is blocked by the trees.
Perhaps he visits the pond or the field.
The moon longer sees me.
Does he miss the nights we shared?

They walk my path less often now,
the ones who loved me before.
made tense by the once beautiful mist,
now dreary and waiting and wanting.

He peaks through the branches now and then
to see if I wait there,
if I care.

The moon made me beautiful.
Lit the shadows,
gave depth to these blossoms now withering.
Now the moon seems gone to me. Lost.
Yet I still wait.

My purpose is slowly drifting away,
becoming the path less taken.
Through daylight I bask in the sun,
and forsake him who has forsaken.
But when darkness drifts I remember the moon
and how much it is I still love him.