The white stars do not blink, they stare
right into my core. I wonder if they see you there.

It is almost midnight and I am alone
with my pen and my thoughts.

59 nights without seeing you and my heart
is a sad desert, with not even a mirage to quench its thirst.

I sit here by the light of a solitary street lamp
and write poems for one who is absent,

Oblivious as the cloud that passes overhead.
Is love always so sad? so one-sided?

No, the moon answers, her pale face breaking
into a thousand shining splinters of laughter,

That isn’t love, only self-pity.
I cannot help myself: I can only laugh along with her.