runaway moon

let me live in a skyless utopia,

promise I’ll never wonder why

the moon is quiet again;

my friend, a painter, knows

the crevices of stars like

the back of her hand, still,

knows no meaning of silence

 

which is to say I’ve wandered

in search of the moon- glimpses

of him in people that ties us together;

which is to say I love the moon, still,

misses the comfort of his light

 

let me live in skyless utopia,

promise I’ll forget spaces

in which there were me and the moon,

and a time when he was not quiet;

words spilling like stars

over the galaxy-

he was silver glitter, moon on steroid,

moon in love with the idea of me

until he wasn’t

 

I hope he is happy, hope he finds

a red moon- more moon than trouble,

moon with easier secrets to swallow whole;

I am sorry, still, for being the love

he thought he could not handle

here to serve some passive aggressive poems
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