Her lunaescence will floor you, maybe,

as it floors me,

constantly.

The metaphysical pull: I fall

into her orbit

and remain, completing

circuit after circuit,

 

gaining no ground yet maintaining proximity.

I’m kept at a distance, irrevocably so,

(for her gravity forbids

that desirous closeness),

I can only dream, day and night,

of lips and eyes—amongst

other things—fantasise

about a fateful day

that may never

arrive.

 

‘The night is good fertile ground

for a sower of verses’, said Borges, once;

and so I yield

to a perpetual night,

bathing in the glow

of her ethereality, scribbling

like a madman;

 

for she is a moon, my moon,

watchful yet oblivious,

eternal yet mortal,

aloof yet present;

she is

lunaescent.