The Miss

I've been under the sun,
     On a bench next to a miss,
  Who had wrinkles as deep as the ocean's deep trenches.
She sang to herself,
                  the songs I've never heard,
   In a language so foreign-
With a tongue like a carrier of messages,
                  A homing pigeon,  
            With wings only surpassed by doves.
     A voice that could only be split in two,
                                                 if it were the Red Sea.
                     So she could drown the noise,
                                 Of the sun's undying praises
                                                                       to
                                                                        the
                                                                         stars
How the darkness is attracted to light,
                                     ink-sweetened moths to a porch light.
     They buzzed and they flitted, chilling the sun to her white-hot core.      
   So the stars whisper to her, sweetly,
    lullabies disguised as light waves.
As they do when she says goodbye to the moon.
                       And the miss I sit next to, whispers to the stars, just as they do the sun,
       She sings to them,
                 in her language,
             with the homing pigeon and Red Sea,
                      Sweet poems to rid them of their insecurities,
                As she smoothes out the bumps in the fabric of the galaxy.
   Because they know, as much as she, the miss, and I, that the sun would never stay,
          for a moment.
              If the moon could stay in her sky.
          The sun could be at ease,
   for she always gives her moon a little part of her heart-
                               The flicker of light, that keeps the moon aglow.
And the moon could be her nightlight,
                      Because she knows, as much as they, the miss, and I
              That the stars whisper to her sweetly,
         those lullabies disguised as light waves,
                      and they're always her nightlight-
      Asking nothing in return.
  But so silently, so secretively,
that it could fit oh so perfectly,
    into that little Pandora's box.
That the stars only ask,
of one very little thing.
That they dare not even know of,
    nor think.
That they very truly
ask of the sun,
        to be the sun,
           because the sun is their might.