hey diddle diddle

One time I took a whole month to feel full. 

And that’s when I met the moon. He taught me that half-fulls and three-quarter-empties
were ok.                       

Were ok.                    
It’s ok.

Moon has been my word-of-the-day for the past four months.

It’s been my side margin sketch

My morning time stretch

The more time I spent with the moon, the less appealing sun kissed skin felt. I craved sparkling eyes and low lit conversations. 

Spent days waiting for nights.

Nights that felt;

Felt like brain apprehending, mind capturing eclipses

and spur of the moment, imperfectly perfect ellipses.

Star gazing turned moon watching.

And my smile was simply a reflection of the moon’s almost new phase.

Waxing              Waning

People always use him as a mark of love. People tell one another they love them to the moon and back.

But I always wanted something larger than a distance, something more three-dimensional.

I needed something that would stick by my side and it only took me a while to realize all the moon could do was spin. And he wasn’t willing to try anything else.

Wasn’t willing to do anything but

Spin

Spin

Spin

Spin

And that spinning turned into slammed doors, stained cheeks, sleepless nights

His beams creeped through my window on the hardest of nights begging to help, but when I asked him to stay still with me for a while he ran away and hid.

The moon wasn't what I needed,

Wasn't being what I asked for.

And I wished for that to change. I wished for him to change orbit and circle my heart,

but hearts aren't play dough.

Not even the moon’s.

When I told the moon the reason I couldn’t keep sky gazing he laughed and said he didn’t understand why spinning was wrong. And I guess it’s not.

But it’s just that I’ve been on my head for the past two weeks and the blood is starting to hurt and he has no sense of direction, no traces of a pharmaceutical degree when it comes to prescribing something to mend heartaches.

I mean how could he? He’s just the moon.

And I realized that, as much as I cared about his bumps and craters, I was in love with the light.

Perhaps the cow who jumped over the moon was too.

And maybe the cow who jumped over the moon, jumped because he was trying to capture the beams. Just like me.

But any amount of reaching and jumping and stretching won’t help either of us to bottle up that light or change the way the moon is.

 

All we will find is an upside down surface.

That knows nothing but spinning.

Because the light,

it’s nothing more than a reflection.

F. Sharpe