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.