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.
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