wb :

I have seen where it grows, the moon, whirling across its celestial ballroom. A forgiving circle, the world's coin. Sometimes I see your face, pockmarked and overflowing with youth. You never tell me what's written on the other side of your face; I ask why and you say the answer's written in the clouds, but the pendulum sweeps them away before I read them. IT HITS ME

You can only see what you want to. I say a song, you say a badge; I say a boy, you say a king; I say a smile, you say a gun, then you shoot the world into a million pieces, knowing full well that I'd cut myself picking them up. I apologize for the red on the wrapping paper, after all we wouldn't know it was brittle otherwise, now would we?

No matter how well we comb our hair, what they see is always a reflection of what you think you are. Is that what you're worth? Searching for destiny in the news, a tiny column at the corner. Constellations are a child's sketch, Barney-esque imagination, the bastard child of fools too busy to be concerned with what really matters. In the end, they're just stars, just like any other celestial object. Like the moon. It hits me again: you have no other side. In my eyes, you're just a paper moon.

Labels: prose