Waxing Crescent (seen briefly at dusk)
The crescent, like me, is growing fatter
aging faster than expected
if I’m not careful, I might miss the jump
from crescent to gibbous
maybe the moon’s not used to such close scrutiny
having grown accustomed to hiding behind metaphor
blue moons, new moons, super moons
we paint false faces to suit our own narrative
when you really stare at the moon
you start to notice its imperfections
the craters that cover its pale face, like scars
how it cowers behind the granite clouds
the way its edges blur on sultry nights
making its surface ripple
a watercolor moon
we look without understanding
that the moon is long dead
a grey, fathomless orb
floating in the empty sky