I am not your moon.
I can’t orbit your existence
or spin in a way that pleases you
constantly revolving around you
while you’re busy circling
some large golden (m)ass.
I’m not some silvery slave
fading in and out of phases
simply to satisfy your appetite.
I couldn’t possibly be some human satellite
when you aren’t willing
to make that kind of sacrifice.
And although you love how I rise your tide,
satisfy your urge and wet your surfaces,
this is not what my purpose is.
You are not my sun.
I’ve barely felt warmth from your hungry hands
whose fingers love to caress my crevices
but are quick to find refuge
in the pockets of your jeans
if I hold you a bit too closely.
This isn’t how affection is supposed to be.
You favor flavor over substance,
always choosing the appetite over the meal
and once you digest, the craving returns…
your heart loves only when your stomach yearns.
you should shine rays of light on my skin
and love my every reflection in the daytime
instead of finding me on cold nights
and creeping me into your confined shadows
where even silhouettes feel more welcoming.
This is not what Earth calls love
This isn’t pretty like northern lights
dancing across a candy colored horizon
or perfectly aligned like an eclipse…
love doesn’t feel like this.
seems to me like you belong on Jupiter,
with a big head full of hot air
and dozens of moons to follow you.
I might want too much,
but I know it’s out there
even if it’s beyond the scope of this galaxy
I know it’s looking for me, it has to be…
and when it falls from the skies,
I’ll be here when it arrives
So I can be done learning this