Concerning the Moon and Time

My fingers won't press down on the keyboard,
because they know I will write something concerning you.
If they could talk,
if they could move,
my hands would stretch and skid as far from here
as possible.
Being attached to me means mourning over you.
I couldn't live without my fingers,
without my bones that twist and groan.
So for the sake of saving them,
I won't write about you.
I stopped thinking about you.
That is a lie.
Stop writing about him, now!
There was once a time,
I thought I was drowning.
The waves had churned me round and round
until I was unsure of which direction the sky was.
I remember thinking about you,
NO!
Because you once said that you
were the ocean,
because no matter what was lost during the day,
the moon always came out at night.
He was your only friend.
Please stop, Gentry.  You're making it worse.  
I wish I could be poetic,
and say things about people like Tennyson
or express feelings through verses like Shakespeare.
But I am just a girl,
with a head full of thoughts that never seem to come out right.
My keyboard must be broken,
or maybe my hands must have a mind of their own.
And yet here I am,
as fragmented as Time itself.
I am ticking backwards each moment,
into thoughts of you.

 

Move on.

Not even the moon can stop Time.