I can see the moon, lulling to the tune of the new loons down by pond: swoon.

We are there – again.

Every time just the same as the last.
Every time you’re more beautiful.
Too bad every time can’t be forever and ever or happily ever after.

I’ve let my mind wander, meander, amble on back to the past’s storeroom and rummage for a while. The moon is low and I’ve just started thinking. The moon grows high and I’m stuck; left pondering.

The moon is my cipher, my spirit guide, my totem, my sherpa. It’s gotten me lost again in faces.

The man in the moon.
The shining of your face upon mine.
The face in the mirror, older every day without you here.

I’d be old even with you here but the memories wouldn’t be as good. I’d have new memories of you. We’d make new memories together so I wouldn’t have to dress these up in moonlight, dance to its serenade.

First, New, Third, Full. Waxing, Waning, Crescent, Gibbous.

I want the past phased out.
I want my memories better than they ever were.
I want you here with me now.