Four Moons, Each Dimmer Than The Last

Four moons, each dimmer than the last,

Simmer out remnants of my past.

Still a sliver of silver reflects the beading still clinging

On my chest, delicately over a retired headrest.

Each inch on my tiptoes reached a new numbness increased,

Now upon four, I cannot feel my feet fleet.

Fabrics round my form in layers I shed throughout the night,

Those tiers elegantly fall, revealing truths I stall walking down the steps

Seemingly to float, But you were supposed to kiss my hand and gloat.

Truths we had buried under the train, dragging emotions I once refrained.

When the night is over, it is clear the feathers were just for show,

That life moves on just as water flows.

Grandiose entrances and secret sayonaras,

Not meant for the lovers who were enthralled in the drama.