There is a way the sun hates the stars

and waits to hear their cries

on the horizon

but a love that lingers in the light of the beaming moon

and that’s when you can hear the waves crash.

And if holding your hand

meant hugging the face of the moon 

to stop the tears of too many stars

who have burned too many times

then I would caress your lips with mine

with a love like the hate of the sun on the horizon

until her flames made the waves catch fire

and our roots would intertwine

among the stardust in the moonlight.