My mother told me once,

That lovers see a different moon

than those who never loved.

It glows a little more for them,

and the moonlight caresses

the curves and crevices of their bodies

to take their image on a misty white film.

She said, the moon plays a photographer

For lovers, far away.
I stagger onto your silhouette

when I look at the moon tonight,

The lady of the night

blooms on a distant wall,

fragrance and serendipity linger in the air,

indistinguishable from the cologne

you used to have on your neck.

I close my eyes and dig deep into both, 

As I used to do.

And yet, when I open them,

I know the moon and these flowers

are battered liars,

And you are no more mine to see

Or touch

Or feel,

But how can you not be mine to love?
I wonder if the moon knew this all along,

That I was never loved the same amount.

Not even half,

I don’t know if I can trust the moon,

Ever again.
I can feel magma coursing through my blood,

in a body of daunting hills and dainty valleys,

Ancient ruins are etched deep 

on a soul charred by neoteric decieves​,

And yet,

The luminescence of the moon,

Still enlightens the temple of Cupid inside my body,

On some nights.

But I don’t​ visit this temple anymore.

And even when I do,

I stand in the archway

to burn memories in front of his alter,

And when the black fumes from the flame go up 

To touch the roof,

I wonder if Cupid was never an angel,

But a demon fallen on Earth.

After all,

Love is the most savage monster.

And if it is so,

Who is more evil-

Cupid or the moon?

Or worse,

The man I loved? 


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