I keep falling in love with something very unlovable

Can’t think about the moon as a foreign concept, cause she’s so blessedly close to the sun,

Who’s familiar as anger, as the tang of skin and salt on your lips,

But the moon— saccharine, soothing,

Glass of water that is swallowed, swallowed,

Lover with blue clothes and smoke in the coils of her hair,

Like following the tides till they wash you free of the surf.

And sex with her carries the scent of sadness, crooked and cold like her smile,

Soothingly silver, poetically perfect,

Lonely goddess with flat stone eyes, ‘adaptable’ carved into her craters,

In case she dares to forget that being loved is a lot like feeling the distance,

Between everything that goes unsaid and the idea of perfection,

Which, like the moon, is often very far away.