I don’t think the Moon wants
to go home. You have cosseted it,
given it cake and cookies,
admired its fullness as a function
of time. It has kept you up
late with its returned volley
of flattery and I desperately want
for you to come to bed,
warm depression in the mattress
beside me as we co-pilot into sleep.
From the darkness I hear your laughter
and know it has fooled you
through one more story, tenderly
wiping the dust from your eyes.
I’m a poor lover, voyeur
in my own home, unable to take
the stairs and step into the brilliance.
I believe in choice.
When you ran away with me
my metal heart nearly burst.
Choose again, choose me again.
Moon and spoon may rhyme
but we are worlds apart.
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