The fact of the moon showed between the jagged teeth of the
city that never sleeps, a sneaky Pete who watches what transpires on this side
where I wander, the stone walls of the precipice looking over my head, and, of
course, I think of her, now years out of date, her fate taking her places I
cannot possibly reach, like the surface of the moon, and like that moon, I
sometimes feel half hidden, always almost obvious, yet unable to surrender,
condemned to be condemned, my face reflected the way the moon’s face is
reflected on the uneven turbulent surface of the river at my feet, this flow
constantly churned up by the parade of ferries, and tug boats, and cruise ships,
many of which settle here near me or across the river in ancient docks, as I
stand and clutch the rail as if scared to fall, this place a memorial to something
long gone yet vividly remembered, the moon light on the river top a perpetual
recollection of how fragile love can be, even when not misguided the way mine
was. I am the moon peeking out between the skyscrapers, pretending I cannot be
seen when I always am, always too exposed, feeling as broken as the river top,
feeling as if the world will end if I rise too high or fall too law, scared to
rise above the skyline where I have nothing to hide behind, when even the dark
sky exposes me.
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