Now waking sad a poem better not written

And on those evenings
In between the sheets.
The moon turns sad,
And there are only ordinary things,
Anywhere.

In between the sheets.
I am alone.
Awake, always as before.
Out of love.
In bed.

The moon turns sad,
Telling me
There are only secrets.
Things are never.
As they seem.

And you show me this too.
In your absence.
In the forever before I sleep.
That there are only ordinary things.
Always were.