The man and the moon

Damn you for staking such a claim. For making the moon yours so that each time I linger out in the world until dark I risk being reminded of you. It used to be that when the moon was spectacularly full I would send you a text, or you me, asking if the other could see it from where they were. Sometimes we both saw it, marvelling at it's beauty, and in extention what we had. Sometimes it was cloudy at mine, or yours, and we would just have to take the other's words for it. And even though we were almost always six hours away from each other, we would be connected then, our eyes gazing in the same direction for a few moments of the same night. Together.
And now. Each time I catch a glimpse of that luminous entity in the night sky my thoughts go to you. It doesn't matter if it's full, on it's way to becoming, or on it's way from having been, you occupy my mind nonetheless. And in your wake a sense of sorrow, of longing and missing what once was, and what I so fervently wished to be.
So damn you for making me wish for clouds on starry nights.


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