the moon

he hung the moon
and made my stuffed animals come alive.

he was the first,
the last,
the only, 
who ever truly was my hero. 
girl-grown-up learned not to believe in such things,

but girl-young-with-starry-eyes
didn't need to be convinced
that he could do anything. 

he hung the moon
and magically transformed my pigtails into motorcycle handlebars.

i close my eyes and he's right there,
sitting next to me on the piano bench—
strumming the guitar in his hand
as my fingers dance across keys—
with laughter and mistakes
tying the notes together.

he hung the moon,
and had the same exact eyes as santa claus.

he was the first,
the last,
the only,
to see me as i am
and think me a princess,

and make me feel taller and stronger and braver
than i really am.

he hung the moon.
and then he turned out its light.