I’m running out of things to say about the moon
though I hardly have an excuse
tonight because it’s shining
through my Mediterranean block-printed curtains
waning above a smear of Payne’s grey clouds
as if it’s about to fall asleep
waiting for the sky to tuck it in
I’m running out of things to say about the moon
because its aloofness is stubbornly consistent
no matter the phase
I’m starting to like the waning moon best
what does that say about me?
I should want picture perfect moons,
the ones that float
within gunmetal clouds
in sateen skies
I only want fading moons
moons that hook with a lethal edge
I want waxers and waners
not super moons
with glittering faces
and bright orange rings
I don’t see myself
in the pregnant fullness; not anymore
my mind is blank until it begins to wane,
and for tonight
I have nothing left to say about the moon