red-stained fingertips

the Moon's lament

often there is the
worship of the sun.

i suppose that was how
i treated you, my love.

for you alit candles
that once were captured
in cobwebs and dust,
among the chessboard
played with pawns
made from my chipped ribs
inside my decaying chest.

and for the first time ever,
i was a gleaming
beauty in the sky.

brighter than the stars,
bright enough to invoke a cult
of lunatics and selenophiles.

but once your light is gone,
i am invisible...

and once we reach high-noon,
i am a vague shape
in the distance...

same may call me comfort,
some may say that
i am more romantic than you.

but we both know that's not true.

i just cannot move on from my love,
unlike you.