The Man on the Moon.

I've always seen the face of a man when I looked at the moon,
In the days before I had a telescope that televised the reality.
No faces. No person in the sky on the recieving end of my problems.
The nights when I would lay awake, describing my day to this comforting entity.
Cry on his fictional shoulder and be patted on the back by shooting stars.
Speaking entire journal entries and reading unwritten poetry to this kindred friend who came to visit me everynight.
Overcast skies were like the long train rides you dread. Looking out the window with hope that the next exit is yours... and the clouds would part and there he would be. Ready to listen and laugh at my jokes.
My astrologicial friend, your shoes have yet to be filled.
Though I fill entire journals with new words and ideas. I miss reciting my unrehearsed form live and naturally to your always hanging ears. Replacing the wind with words and music straight from my soul.
Making each night more creative and beautiful. Peaceful.
Man on the moon, did you move to the other side?
Did my words make you want to hide?
Or did I just grow up and realize that I just speak words.
That the meaning behind them is empty without someone on the recieving end, feeling.
I miss you.