You didn't deserve her. The moon is made of pure dust and smells like fresh tulips in the first garden sprout of spring. She couldn't stand to look at you as you made your way down the street each night, sneaking in and out, promising love to one and yanking it away from another.
I drove comfortably down the street toward home, missing all of the usual potholes because these were my roads. I followed gently along the curves like how I trace the space between the moles on my arm. I trace them myself, while your fingers rot off and twist lifelessly down in the cement of your heart. I trace them and feel the moon bubbling in my throat and glowing in my chest.