to set the scene:
england in the
early nineteens
everyone has a
***** face
but
the queen
but her
doings
are dirtier
she paid a fee
to have me
murdered
a political pawn
in this distressing
chess game
just another
***** face
without
a name
so it goes
someone
will write a tiny
story about me
and sell it
for a penny
for society's
pleasure

i wonder how many people are jealous of the moon
how it can see everyone
and how everyone sees its beauty that permeates through all the other beautiful things
sometimes, i ask the same moon you loved staring at
“where could he be now?”
and hope that it would cross your mind that i still long for you, especially in this cold November night
because on this bermuda under a talisay, we could be loud again
we would be laughing again like nineteens
but all i hear now are crickets that could wound my ears
“where could he be now?”
i ask the moon sometimes, twice
but then i just wish you’re happier somewhere.