Forgive me, lonesome moon,

for scattering stars at your side.

Forget me next or forgive me again

for stealing them back away.

You sabotage your very own light

by stepping into retreat

and giving in to the sun’s demands,

if only to soothe your aching hands.

If you’re intent on ruining yourself,

why should I assist you?

I will not help you burn yourself out.

I will not help you ruin what we have.

The night sky is a canvas,

and your eyes drip on the brush,

so cry out, fair moon,

and paint the world in your song.

Maybe there is beauty in dissonance.

Forgive me, loving sun,

for revealing your hand to the world.

Scorn me next, and do it again,

for never returning the stolen clouds.

You’re ashamed and dim your light

by ducking under cotton sheets

and playing puppeteer to the lunar cry.

If only you’d smile and bear, or try.

If you plan to be a one time marvel,

I refuse, in this life, to assist you

for I could never help you hide.

I won’t help you do anything but live.

You claim the sky cries your tears,

and your hands are weary and burnt,

so burn, my sun,

and cauterize the wound you made.

Maybe your love will eclipse once more.