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
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,
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,
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.
Love is the most savage monster.
And if it is so,
Who is more evil-
Cupid or the moon?
The man I loved?