Lost,
the Moon is the only one who
sees me,
but in its muted beauty, it cannot
guide me.
It shows many paths,
but can’t walk with me
hand in hand,
its gray and freezing craters
a poor excuse
for gazing into eyes that never fail
to hold me rapt,
determined to plunge
their unfathomable depths,
understand the inscrutable beauty
they possess.
I want to greet her like a friend,
kiss her in the amber candlelight
and fruited incense.
Yet if i do, on the instant I will know she is no fantasy,
and I will feel her wrath at a perceived slight
I meant as no such thing.
So I will keep my illusion
by keeping my distance,
content to watch
the dance of flame and shadow
on her dimpled cheeks,
and halo her shimmering hair.
To close my eyes
and imagine the scent of honeysuckle
laced with myrrh.
Imagine the worn, ancient contours of these
cold unyielding pillars to be the
warm and hilly curves of her young, yielding form.
Believe her enchanting incantation
is but a serenade
declaring her love for me.
It is a love of great and terrible distance,
felt all the more keenly for being so near.
BlackQuill 