I was always fascinated by looking at the moon. The way she hovers, low beyond the horizon, just starting to rise. The way she shines through the branches, the cracks, the pavement.
I was always fascinated by the moon. Her craters awe me. How could she look so beautiful with all these imperfections?
I'd look at the sky, each night, hoping to look at her beauty, her peace, her sanity. I'd look at her, hoping to grasp a semblance of hope.
And when she leaves, I turn away and refuse to accept her lender's light. And maybe that's how you always felt about me- oblivious to how I can be more than what you need.
YOU ARE READING
Trinkets
PoetryIf you want to read without the commitment, this is the perfect book for you. You can open it and read a few excerpts once in a while, or you can read it in one go. The entries here have various themes which may confuse readers as it confused the wr...
