Waning

If the moon is for lovers then what does that make us,
We two who sit here in the silence of daylight
Wrestling with fear?  Was it merely an evening of stardust,
Or some other wayward word that hovers out of sight
A transient faery magic disappearing all too soon
Or a mystical moment courtesy of a waning moon?

“If not love, what can it be?” your frantic eyes seem to plead
Vague and glazed with dismay, a victim of last night’s fantasy;
“It is not love, it shall not be,” the harsh sun has decreed
Its merciless glare the antidote to our moonlit ecstasy.
Still here we are, you and I, together long past the time of leaving,
Sitting here in watchful silence, each in our own way grieving

For what is lost to us.  We are strangers once more, every ray
Of sunshine is agony, an implacable reminder of stupendous madness;
And thus the dimming of the night and the dawning of the day
Become a dreadful thing.  With light comes clarity.  The sadness
Stems from morning regrets; the matchless folly of fulfilled desires
Overwhelms last night's gladness.  The sun awakes, the moon tires.

What was sensual is now sordid, what had transpired with little fuss
And much joy between you and I under the benevolent gaze of night
Accorded a new, ignoble meaning – not tender passion but base lust.
There is only the residue of careless words, careless hands, and the fright
Of two who stumbled upon trickster fairies playing a very merry tune,
Their mischievous music inspiring our recklessness underneath the moon.