Ballroom Perpetual

We are born and soon ailed by pain that
we know not yet the name of.
Loudly we cry out.
Then we soothe qualms,
grow calm,
in our mothers' arms.

Thus, we come to know love.
Years go by, slowly, we grow up,
and we're ailed by a pain much greater now
but crying's not allowed.
And so, once more we long to be
somebody's baby.

You'll be immune
within her womb,
but me, I'm writing love songs
to the moon...

Wish I knew
there's no such thing as you,
human form of the moon,
you're just a hope I drew.

You're a ghost
possessing pretty hosts
until you overflow,
letting the human show.

So I resume looking for you
in everyone I'm allured to,
in everyone I bump into,
until I learn they're just people.

I realize
I've deified
a fabrication in my mind,
but I forget under moonlight.

...and as we waltz around in my intangible ballroom,
I get all pensive,
and I realize I romanticize not only you but myself too.
There's this point I must reach to be who I want to,
and it requires an inhuman jump.

I can't love myself,
that's why I need you to do it for me.
I know,
let's play house:
you'll be my mother;
I'll be my father;
baby me is crying,
let's put him to sleep.

We spin around some more and I look into your heavenly eyes,
your impossible, moonlight-colored eyes.
It's hard to believe my miseries and flaws
are what brought me to dream them up.
So maybe,
no, definitely,
all those imperfect people I've met, and am yet to meet,
they have their own moons, product of that imperfection,
and now I'm eagerly curious to go visit their ballrooms.

I stand on the windowsill.
This time,
the sound of everyone below is as beautiful
as the silence of the moon above
but I no longer need to choose between them.

It seems as if the moon was nothing but a bud all along,
and has bloomed before my very eyes...