Love, once you found a new lover, please don't tell me about

her.
I am not strong enough to see you smiling because of different
reason, but I am happy that you moved on. I don't want to
cross each other's line and remember that you were once mine.
It's not that I despise you because we didn't work but I am just
being cautious because my heart might go berserk.
I know you'd be happy to be with a love that knows how to
hold you in times of struggle and to let you go whenever you
want to be free like a bubble. To realize that I was too stupid
for being clueless hurts me, for I haven't noticed when do you
want me to be at your side and when should I suppose to leave
you behind; and beyond realizing it, you were the one who's
more bleeding in pain for I was not there.
I do not have the right to regret for it was my choice. I do not
have the right to get jealous for the reason that she have
replaced me because in the first place, I know she'd never be a
replacement but a brand new home.

By her ephemeral lunar glimpse, she pours the emptiness of

man, in the night full of terror her light was the cascade of the
Earth. Her eternal love blooms in every sidewalk we sit on,
casting its bizarre lunar intentions to comfort us whenever we
feel anxious. The monstrous waves began to calm by her
angelic touch; she kisses the sea with her magnanimous lips
glancing in the bosom of the ocean that may become the lamp
whenever darkness conquers our nights. The moon pulls the
gravity out from the abyss of loneliness; somehow, we are the
puppets of our confusion giggling with the tickling sound of
forlorn, laughing in the misty breeze of agony while the beat of
our heart will become thunderstorms. The moon is alive so as
the Earth, but mankind might dead long ago. We are dead
whenever we want to catch the shooting stars, take pictures of
the sunset, gaze at the sunrise, connect the aesthetic
constellation, walk in the pillars of sand of solitude, or sit under
the lunar reflection of her transference appearance
because of immortality. She never leaves us with burdens in
our door, a-cross in our shoulders while we are waking
underneath obscurity, but we leave her when the obscure-
clouds began to eat her stateliness. Her serenity was the cure
of brokenness, maybe if the moon can truly sing; we will hear
her shouting in the universe that she is alive orbiting in the
invisible orbit of the Earth, traveling in the valley of planets and
meteoroids urges us how she began to lost her beauty day by
day because of us. Yet, we only look at the moon if it's a full
moon; however, we never look for her when sadness never
knocks on our bosom like a ghastly symphony of Hell.