in the thousand faceless poems i've read
the moon has never been named a 'him'.
'he' had been a moon when 'she' was the sun
it has been a silver-chipped tooth
a force of untrifled gravity
has been the envious moon, Romeo calls out to his lover by the balcony-
[arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.]
the moon and its eclipses,they say, how mysterious.
alas, I have never found the moon mysterious,
nor a source of crippling loneliness
nor a beauty so divine i couldn't bear to part
was a he a they a someone i felt i could've loved.