Will you be the sun
or the moon? I asked her.
She said, I’ll be the moon.
Why? I asked, the light
does not belong to the moon.

I’ll still be the moon, she said.
To borrow from elsewhere
and light the dark,
that is the moon.
I would always want to
be the moon.

The moon is lost,
the moon is eclipsed,
the moon is tainted,
I argued.
So is the human heart,
she said.

Our hearts are like
the moon, reflected over
a broken glass;
it isn’t the moon that’s broken
only the reflection.

I’ll still be the moon, she said;
navigating the dark
under it’s light.

I’ll still be the moon.