I’ve been enamored with the moon lately. Every day where I wait for the bus that takes me to yoga at stupid o’clock, which is (in)conveniently located atop a really steep hill, I have a perfect view of the moon, unobscured by urban props. I’ve been watching it shrink into blackness the last few weeks and composing odes. Some of these aren’t haiku, but bastard versions of haiku, which seemed somehow fitting too.

The Full Moon’s opposite

is not “empty” but New.

I seek you in its shadows.

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I want you like the

sun wants to own a piece

of the nighttime sky.

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My Cinderella,

let me keep you past curfew

a little longer.

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“Impossible” is

just a word. You can destroy

books, but not stories.

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It’s not the distance, love.

It’s wings, windows, worlds

begging to be opened.

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Crescent sliver of moon.

Sometimes you smile and the

world smiles back at you.

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I’m no virgin, but

you are the first–the only–

to stifle this howl.

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Before you became

the moon, you were the wind. You

touch me other ways now.

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Mi sucia,

gracias por mostrarme

un mundo sin fin.

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