The Impossible Expression

Nights would have been expressionless
had it not been for the moon.

The moon, I say, is a mood.

I love it when it's lips; a perfect 'O'-
like I've woken its passion;
rekindled it.

Sometimes it grows pale and yellow
and I believe it as fickle as I am.

Then the crescent of Eid-
like a downcast eye,
like Buddha's smile.
And the placid brow
of a mystic, when upside down.
I moon my nights away,
admiring the pout on the sky.

The moon is never a face;
it's a chameleonic feeling.
Sometimes I peel it off the sky
and swallow it.

But on days like today,
as it snowballs into a dream,
I pet it and spoil it.

Its fullness tells me,
it's been enceinte a fortnight.