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I’m running out of things to say about the moon

though I hardly have an excuse

tonight because it’s shining through my Mediterranean block-printed curtains

waning above a smear of Payne’s grey clouds as if it’s about to fall asleep

waiting for the sky to tuck it in

I’m running out of things to say about the moon

because its aloofness is stubbornly consistent

no matter the phase

I’m starting to like the waning moon best and what does that say about me?

I should want picture perfect moons, the ones that float within gunmetal clouds in sateen skies

I only want fading moons

and moons that hook with a lethal edge

I want waxers and waners

not super moons with glittering faces and bright orange rings

I don’t see myself in the pregnant fullness; not anymore

my mind is blank until it begins to wane, and for one long night

I have nothing left to say about the moon

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