I do not like the way you look at the moon.
It reminds me of how late one night you compared
my skin to hers. Intended as a compliment I’m sure,
but as your gaze shifted between us I could see
your eyes discerning and knew that I came up
as the one less favoured.
I do not like the way her lighting marks you.
When I last risked the blinds, beams cut
between the slats and raked your face like prison bars.
You said that night you dreamed the moon held you in her arms.
I dreamed you were drowning
in a bloody tide.
I do not like the way her phasing fades you.
Since her last quarter, you’re drowsy all the time
and have been forgetting things like how to eat and bathe.
As I wipe this cloth across your brow, I’m certain it is she
who put you in this state; she who could not bear
to share you with the world.
And if she cannot share, then would she wash you?
Perhaps she fears blemishing her milky fingers –
whereas I would leave you to it, abandon you to Hypnos,
for I cannot bear to see you set so slowly.
But even in the daytime I know she watches; a shadow
of my shadow, as I am a reflection of her glare, yet I can’t deflect her –
it is as I have long feared:
we are both moonstruck.