Please tell the moon it’s over.
We have loved one another for a quarter of a century
so I know she will understand me when I say:
I’m tired and I’m giving up.
Tell her I’m through.
I’ve become too fascinated with darkness to let her light rule me.
Tell the moon I’m sorry.
April was a graveyard that buried me.
And I am not as dead as I would like and
I am barely who I was when I was above ground,
and moon, beautiful moon,
you keep whispering the sweetest things into my ear,
and I hear you,
and I appreciate you,
and I don’t mean this the wrong way.
I don’t mean to hurt you,
but I let the gloom take over me.
Tell the moon it’s all my fault.
I let things slip away from me.
I had an affair with the absence of light
in our bed,
an April ago,
and it has made a home out of my infidelity.
And I didn’t want to hurt her this way,
And I didn’t want to hurt you this way, moon,
but I kept seeing his face every time you looked down on me.
*Disclaimer: This poem is named after Laura Marling’s song, “My Manic and I”.