It is because he loved like the moon,
That I saw stars in his eyes, reflections of the sun
In his soul.
He loved me. In his own way,
Like the moon that can only be seen under the cloak of darkness.
And I was a mess. To think at times he gave me half of him, other times he was a crescent moon. But I always yearned for the fullness of him.
Dear moon man
I wish you would stay, like the lies you told to ease my soul,
I wish I could buy you, or at least harvest you,
keep you all to myself in a tiny little match box.
But you call me selfish for loving you this way.
You say there is too much of you and I cannot possibly handle you on my own.
Besides, I cannot contain you.
You say you are not a moon. You think you are the sun himself and you shine on all that fall under your gaze.
They lift up their skirts and you peep beneath because you know they want you. They all need you.
As much as you burn them and leave gory marks on their skin.
You are not a flame. You are sun. I am the poor moth that should stay clear of you,
Let me retreat to the shadows where I belong.
Leaving you to your billions of butterflies.