In the thousand faceless poems I've read

the moon has never been named a “him.”

 

"He" had been a moon when "she" was the sun.

It has been a silver-chipped tooth

                  a force of untrifled gravity,

   has been the envious moon, Romeo calls out to his lover by the balcony—

                  [arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon].

The moon and its eclipses, they say, how mysterious.

 

Alas, I have never found the moon mysterious,

                  nor enviable,

                  nor a source of crippling loneliness,

                  nor a beauty so divine i couldn't bear to part.

 

The moon 

              was a he

                     a they

                     a someone

I felt I could've loved.

                                                                                                                                        

hemilio.shio.