New Silver Moon

I write to you from here, from the edge of my thoughts,

they kidnapped the moon and between my fingers

remains the taste of memories.

I don't know where you are nor if your star is still as sad

as when I met you; I don't know whether your clear eyes

are still dark because of pain or for fear that pain

might be unchanging, eternal.

I hope not. It's true: I didn't take leave sweetly from you,

my honey had gone black and bitter when you chose to leave me

like a cold tombstone in the rain, but no, I don't hate you

anymore: I want life to think twice before piercing you

and I want your time to expand into years of ambrosia.

As for me, I'm here. If you should feel the taste of memories,

you'll be welcome: I'll be ready with a heart (patched, but alive)

and a new silver moon.