The evening is quiet;
If by 'quiet' one disregards the breeze blowing by --
The clicking of the cicadas on one summer night.

I look up at the inky black sky and realize
That the moon is beautiful --
in a way unlike how conventional beauty is
expected to rob us of our breaths,
to give us tunnel visions,
make us chase the ecstasy of endless nights
in drunken stupor, in drugged haze.

It is not hot-blooded and obsessive and oppressive,
but quite the opposite;
Cold and detached, with a balanced air
of elegance and arrogance that which
only ethereal beings can achieve.

In the back of my mind, I've always known.
I've always felt the moon's presence, heard its call,
but have taken it all for granted.
Its muted warmth, its soft light
that drags my weary bones and tired soul
to the lonely bed, to cold thin sheets,
to the four grey walls I call a home.

Would any other lover be as kind?
Would any other pair of hands be as gentle?
Would any other voice be as soft?
I don't know, nor do I wish to know.
The moon is all I've ever wanted...

...but now I fear it's too late.
What once was I thought the apex of your moonrise
was already your descent;
What else can I do but watch?
Just like celestial bodies in the sky,
we share the same horizon
but are destined to never meet.

My love is the sun, which rises
only when your moon sets.