Moon the Unreachable

The moon was never mine,
Yet she keeps vigil at my window
a pale blossom drifting through the dark,
unfolding her quiet glow
as if to say I am here,
Though my hands will never hold her.

I long for her
for the soft white petals of her light,
for the hush she pours into my chest.
But desire is a fragile hunger,
a flame I cup
knowing it will never warm me.

I am only a passerby,
a barefoot labourer of longing,
allowed to breathe her nearness,
taste her on the air
the faint scent of intensity,
yet never bold enough to steal
what was never meant to be mine.

Still she rises,
night after night,
a distant tenderness
I learn to love without touching.

And so I wait…
though waiting itself has become a dream,
a trembling illusion,
for she is not mine to meet,
only mine to miss.