When The Moon Moves Me

What is the cure for love-sick hearts?

Why wasn't it me
who shaped the moon
just so
I can't quite
balance my moves
--a mooncalf--
while your strengths
lift me up
I'm told to
write a little less
about you
for my own good
I haven't got one
solid prescription to cure
my ills
over you, my heavenly
fantasies
Yet, something tells
me to write more
so I clamour like
Pygmalion
with the lipsticks
I sell,
underneath your
silvery dust,
only waiting for you
to deepen me in a good
night sleep
when you glow like satin
and sound like couplets
on beauty
that no dead eclipse could
steal