Each night my moon's light grows weaker, only a flicker of his past self.
When I gaze up at him from my windows, I don't feel the same as I used to. His beam no longer envelops me.
He looks the same, his craters all in place, yet I can't help but feel like I'm staring at someone else.
On late night trips as a child I would look out the car window and wonder why the moon was following me.
I'd tell my dad to drive faster, hoping we could outrun it somehow.
Now I walk slowly down the street. I don't dare look up at the sky because I know he's not there.
I shout night after night. I tell the stranger to give me my moon back. I tell him my woes. I give him my tears.
You're not him. You're not him. You're not him.
And I wish he wasn't. But he is.
Perhaps my moon was never mine?
Either way he never answers, never cares. Not anymore.
I cry each time dawn rolls around like it's the last time I'll see him, because maybe it is.