glory of the moon
the moon burns to an ochre ash, unflinchingly obvious: unafraid and scintillating. with stolen heartbeats, it glows brighter, with remnants of lost loves, it turns deeper — yet, if the moon knew of my love, perhaps, it would appear as seraphic to you as it does to me, perhaps then, the glory of our love wouldn't be of ruin; it would become the glory of peace. the glory of bliss.