Every poem is about the moon, except this one is not about you. I was the one who borrowed the light. Tried to form a face from the surface scars. Kept half of me hidden, while the other side cycled in and out of sight. I drifted away in centimeters. Whatever I held lost its weight, including the air that thinned around me. No one knew about the seismic shifts, though they felt the tides. You were everything I was circling.