We are all aware of the moonlight when the sky swallows the morning whole
like a badly bitten cheese floating around tiny fireflies.
It changes shape, it wears masks, hiding in the shadows
as if embarrassed of its face
Moons are imperfect; it’s not like the sun
smooth, glossy, and shines by itself. Moons are just giant rocks, floating around somebody else’s orbit
because they can’t revolve around a solar system on their own
they choose to be nimble because they are afraid
of colliding, of being broken into pieces.
Maybe that’s the reason why the wolves howl with it, it cries with condolence.
When I was a child, I wanted to be sun. I wanted to be a star.
But I only am moon now; shamefaced, helpless, pirouetting around a little planet scheduled for destruction.
Out of the billions, maybe, I can hold hands with Earth
and I’d willingly whirl around him all my life
Until the sun eats us up.