A poem - from a distant past

Do you see the moon?

It stares down from the sky
It pales as the dawn grows near
It sleeps in the palm of my hand
If I concentrate, I could swear its light carries the faintest scent--is it jasmine, or some other, ineffable, undiscovered bloom?
Nothing could be colder, yet I crave the ancient warmth that must still smolder in its dying, molten core, mustn't it?
Nothing so seemingly alive could be just an illusion of life--could it?
I insist upon its distance, yet I welcome the gift--the rhythm and the swell--of its tidal caress.
It races. It stands still.
It hides in plain sight, using only shadows as its camouflage.
She tries to look away, but I force her to face me, always face me, even when she's hidden in shadow.
Even when she's sure I cannot see her.
Even when you're sure you cannot see me, you stare, unflinching, unwilling to look away even if you could.
Unable to separate your will from mine.
Your thought from mine.
Assured by forgotten memories that my distant presence is inevitable, but unable to look away just the same, in case miss your next, final glimpse.