the moon

She was in a constant belle. Beauty can not describe her. To her maternalistic personality, that is tender and warmhearted. That shows love and magnanimity to everything, even the ones who treat her like detritus and raze her slowly. To her earthy smell and young heart. To her unfathomable, come-hither appearance. Her eyes hold the tints of existence, of the verdure and animals. It was such a shame, him and I were to to be tormented to watch her die.

She fluoresced brightly with the inferno of her lover, the man whose conflagration burned brighter and more furious than any passionate blaze I have ever seen. I despise him, yet chase him across her azure view. Her soil tufts that make me want to touch my pale, vomitous, fingers across them, but she is already too far for me to do so. She is too far for me to grasp into my touch, or maybe she is so close and I'm so weak, unlike her lover.

Her inamorato, the personage I hate but would chase to the ends of the dark space from which I reside. He is a great soul, who is golden and leads others with only a pull of his scintillating light. He exalted her as she does him. He burns his luster and she lives in it. I try to copy it, shine like he, but only produce a pale glow, which she doesn't admire, but nor neglects. I, myself, only live in the darkness, the shadow of the two. My grasp is so weak, I cannot lure her. I am a spectral, revolting, a mockery. I'm pastel gray, with darker patches on my pitted skin. My eyes hold no strength in obstinacy like her lover, nor enough spirit like herself, just sable emptiness clouded with cloister. I stay away, and watch harrowingly, as her swain fondles her. Not often, I would stride between them. She would hail me, and peer at my skin, as it turns dark and ugly. She would then, ignore me, and I would stare over in agony as she would return to let her lover, waiting in her cobalt view. When he is gone and the darkness consumes us both, and only my borrowed light from him keeps the taunting shadows of misery and depression at bay, does she notice. She speaks in crashing whispers, and I never miss a beat. Those times never last, like a dragged out final breath. To her, I am only a listener, something to fill those short moments of emptiness. I'm not a companion, a friend, a lover. I'm nothing but a shadow to hear her phrases. I know this well. She told me with her dark blue words that reflected my appearance and inner fervor. She told me of blue words that turned into a washed out gray. I love her anyway. Even when I watch from afar. I love her. Even when I see her and her lover dance their orbital dance that I try to copy. I love her. Even when I know I'm nothing important nor, unimportant to her. I love her.

This is why I orbit her.