Morendo

Since your return the moon has slowly hid
itself behind the brightness of the sky.
In its cold dying is an outlined sigh
that veils the clouds which dare to stray amid
the poorer light the moon has no more need
for. Shadows stray; the sky is bright, and high
atop the silhouettes unmoving lie
those sharpened branches on which moonbeams bleed.
Sometimes you cause the stars to fall. They break
upon the sleeping, as immaculate
as wishes. Stand close, feel the chills that take
your breath away. The moon will disappear,
but not yet. Stay tonight; beyond the gate
of scattered clouds the moonlight touches you, here.

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