of imaginary

You try to make me forget the moon
but it shines through my window
forming a box on my floor
pointing at my door
beckoning me to dance in its rays
it wants so much to warm me
but the sun has stolen
the thing that would make it golden

I sit alone. Again.
I've grown accustomed to the moon
as my friend
the stars my allies
they are the ones that see me when I cry
hear me when I sing sweet songs
of pretend.
Of imaginary
of someday

and now I'm writin' words for an imaginary audience.
You might read it
she might read it
and it might stir something
but that's not why I write.
Maybe it is sometimes.
Maybe I make rhymes
hoping for some face to appear
at my window
like romeo
like juliet
I don't know yet
which one I am
I'm tired of you sayin' this is who I am
I may have skin that's white
but white is just white
not the absence of light
maybe that's why I write
to make no sense
just to sound poetic
to get you to stop and think
maybe it's pathetic
but you're thinking
about the moon
now. Aren't you?

Hopefully you'll dance in her moonbeams
and sing a little song
dance dance the whole dark long