Love

My mother told me once,
That lovers see a different moon
than those who never loved.
It glows a little more for them,
and the moonlight caresses
the curves and crevices of their bodies
to take their image on a misty white film.
She said, the moon plays a photographer
For lovers, far away.

I stagger onto your silhouette
when I look at the moon tonight,
The lady of the night
blooms on a distant wall,
fragrance and serendipity linger in the air,
indistinguishable from the cologne
you used to have on your neck.
I close my eyes and dig deep into both,
As I used to do.
And yet, when I open them,
I know the moon and these flowers
are battered liars,
And you are no more mine to see
Or touch
Or feel,
But how can you not be mine to love?

- RS