The Death of a Honey-coloured Moon


How will summer ever translate…

Into winter?


Till you get there…


…slowly at first

Almost imperceptible.

Until the last bursts of heat and light are distant

(like the memory of just how deep that first cut sank).

I know that you love me!

Yet I fear my power

Of reasoning

Has at points been so wide.

How long must I wait

For this winter to break?

Feeling the ache of forgotten moons

Seeking the warmth

(and light) of you;

My sun at noon.

Loving you all too often

(it seemed)

Loving you too much (perhaps)

And too soon.


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