I always got participant ribbons.

Sometimes I want someone to be there to tell me why the spacebar is more worn out than the letters in "please"

and sometimes I want to ask love for its first name, because "in," "of," "for," and "with" are too simple to preface the thing I've never tried to search for.

My eyes are too restless to ask all the questions that matter, 

and before they can leave my lips they just slide back between my teeth and past my tongue and hide in my throat.

Wherefore art thou Romeo and wherefore art thou Juliet and wherefore art thou Erin
and it is the east and Juliet is the sun
But I haven't needed anyone to be the sun since I discovered why I liked the moon so much.

The sun is too busy.
It has to deal with hope and prayers and love.
It watches for hours and hours and everyone goes to see it.

The moon saves time for me, because I'm awake after the hope goes to bed.
It listens to my prayers and it knows why I can't let the questions past my lips and it knows why I'm asking in the first place.
It thinks more about the 3 a.m. lovers than the noontime dates
and it thinks more about the sad lips than the happy ones.

The moon, it sees them,
the tears hiding in your bedsheets and under your pillow,
and it wipes them away with a Mona Lisa smile.
Don't speak or you'll ruin it.

The moon sees with old eyes,
used to the desperation of the stars
and the things that can only be whispered when parents are asleep,

and I love it.

I love the yellow white glow,
the reflected light,
the face that I've never been able to see.

It knows why I look for Orion instead of the Big Dipper
and it knows why I'm disappointed when I find it.

The moon would tell me what love goes by, but it sees I want to find out on my own.
It would tell me whose name is more threadbare than the spacebar,
but it knows me too well.

It knows where I keep my nickels and it knows what shade of lipstick I wear
and it knows which skirts I wear for which occasions
and it knows why I wish I had more skirts for more occasions.

The moon breathes with the knowledge that it isn't warmth,
but the insomniacs love the light too much to care.

The light that turns gold into silver,
quiets the diamonds,
and relishes in pale skin and open-mouthed smiles.

The moon bleeds second place,
and maybe that explains my love.

The sun always got the gold.
Gold medals for the bright light.
Silver for the mirror in the sky.

I'd say that's a bad thing,
but it doesn't hurt to look at the moon.


--Erin