a foolish young boy sits in the
curve of the moon
his back to the light, he is swallowing darkness. the night sky wraps around his heart and holds tight and
will not let go for a while. he is looking for something, doesn't know what.
he will weep soon, and only polaris will bear witness.
the stars will wish they could speak to him. they are in this world to burn and feed the dreamers and then die,
it does not matter what they say. a whole world deaf to the symphonies of the stars,
foolishly holding them in our palms and saying you are so beautiful, he will hold them in his palms and say nothing,
i am so so sorry, orion;
ten years later he will sit
in the moon again and she will
hold him a little closer and
he wil not cry.
his cheeks will be flushed and the night sky was not the first to touch him tonight.
age, the inevitable, the shifter of all tides. the stars sang to him and he
still grew up. the stars held his heart and he
poured it into the throat of another until it burned
like whiskey in after hours,
something he did not used to know
the taste of.
what now? celestial bodies dance in the chests of lovers and he does not know.
he does not know that they are finite.
does not know that the moon watches even when she
blackens and becomes sky.
does not know
so much -
and the stars cannot tell him this. the moon sings: please return. he does not.