Fog on the Moon

I remember twelve moons, each brighter than that first one shrouded in fog.
Each a reminder of brilliance reflected
Light bent but never claimed,
Cherished but never truly known.

The moon never belonged to me until I shared it with another.
The other I will never have but will ever pine for,
A lonely wolf howling in the cold,
With not but a plume of steam to show that I exist,
Shimmering in our light.

Our cycle is as fixed as the moon
As constant in its path
In the ebb and flow of light
We're a spark in the dark
Brilliant and burning,
Always to go dim to be lit again.