Part 1:

Full moons still don’t look full to me.

But sitting under the stars with your hand in mine while listening to toads croak and the neighbor’s dog whine underneath the incomplete moon but full moonshine

I think to myself, my past self,

“You were wrong.

You selfish, inconsiderate, prick.”

I hear you sputter out a “Huh?” and I guess I muttered that less under but over my breath.

Now, whether it’s your body next to mine, or the vibrant night shine, or our uncontrollable spiral toward death–I will never know completely–but I blurt out,

“Does this ‘full moon’ actually look full to you?

Because it doesn’t to me.”

Immediately I regret my choice to direct this question at you because I already know your answer and yet,

“No, honestly, it doesn’t.”

I was wrong.

Never more have I been more wrong, and about how much more you had, and were coming along.

That’s what’s more.

It took drastic measures. But all along, you saw the moon the same way as me.

So what made you gawk at this folly of a spectacle and turn me off and away from you?

Did you know all along?

Was this your plan?

I know it wasn’t, couldn’t, in no universe, but maybe

You are wiser than me.

But in reality,

There’s no comparison, I and you and you and me.

We share a completeness Past Me didn’t foresee.

A completeness lacked by Sister Moon, she

and I alone know each others fallacies.

Full moons still don’t look full to me.

 

Part 2:

Full moons still don’t look full to me.

But contrary to my previous self,

the me that threw you upon the shelf,

I see the beauty.

The beauty in the missing sliver of Sister Moon.

The imperfection that lets me know it all really is true.

The beauty in the brown spot polluting house left of two; soft eyes of blue.

The imperfection:

Full moons never fucking look full to me, nor to you.

I yearn for it to be complete but yet beneath my costume, I sadistically enjoy that it will never be.

 

I look back at myself and ask “What’s the matter with you? You forcibly grasp for the negative aspects and events. And cry about how nothing is right. When it’s your own damn fault everything’s how it is. Stop being so afraid. Stop running and settle down.” “It’s how it has to be-” “Fuck you.”

 

It took a landslide of events for Past Me,

younger, clueless, blind, inconsiderate, selfish me

to admit, embrace my cynicism, sadism, beatnik outlook.

To understand,

It took you for me to understand.

Understand myself, and yourself, and ourselves

To realize;

It took you. It took you to realize what I had taken from you

It took you. It took you to realize what I had taken from me

It took you. It took us for me to realize that

I can’t run, hide, push away, ignore, avoid or deny

that you’re my missing moon piece.

Full moons never look full to me.

But sitting under the stars with your hand in mine while listening to toads croak and the neighbor’s dog get let inside,

I let you inside.

And the “full moon” feels full to me.