Before the poem says anything else, it gives us a single word in guillemets: «Moon.» The title has already named Helen, and its "Goddamnit" sounds half angry, half helpless. So the reader infers that "Moon" is what the speaker calls her, or what she is to them. Within two lines a person has become a light in the sky, and the rest of the poem tries to work out what that light is hiding.
The opening paragraph builds a small paradox. The speaker addresses the dark directly, "Oh darkness," and instead of fearing it, almost thanks it: "the more you exist, the more I can see the stars that I love so much." The next sentence repeats the pattern ("The more you spread, the brighter the moon"), so the lines have the feel of a chant. The idea underneath is that the speaker's love cannot be separated from the dark around her. Then the poem pushes past its own image. She was like the moon, "But brighter, colourful." The real moon is pale, so "colourful" reads as the speaker admitting that the comparison is too small.
The turn comes with "But like the moon, there was a side she never showed." Here the moon works as a way of describing a hidden self. What follows is a portrait in compressed phrases: "A young soul, filled with kindness, in a world asking for her hatered." The verb matters, because the world doesn't just offend her, it asks for hatred, as if it were owed. Then comes "A rebelious, trembling mess of stars," which holds defiance and fragility together, and "mess" sounds fond rather than insulting. The next sentence drops from sky to ground: "Through the ruins she made flowers grow." The poem never says what the ruins are, and that silence lets them be anything, from her surroundings to something inside her.
There is no rhyme and no regular metre. The poem sits between prose and verse, opening in dense, flowing sentences and then breaking into short questions that arrive one after another. Repetition does the work a rhyme scheme might have done: "How many times" appears twice, then "Are you" begins five questions in a row. The tenses add to the sadness. She "was" the moon, and the speaker has "wished for your return," so she is gone or distant, though the poem never says why. The run-together punctuation (commas with no spaces after them) and the misspellings, such as "acheing" and "forgoten," give the page the look of feeling written down fast. That unpolished surface suits the poem's urgency.
The questions are where the poem is most inventive. "Knelled down acheing for their safty" gives her the posture of prayer, but she prays for other people, and "how much blood have you spilled" makes her kindness cost something. Then the speaker tries three names on her: soul, heart, friend. Each is paired with a different heavenly body. As a star she grants "everyone's wishes … except yours," which turns wishing-on-stars upside down, since the thing everyone wishes upon never gets a wish. As stardust she is "forgotten dreams combined into a new one," the freshest image in the poem, a person built from other people's leftover hopes. As the moon she can only be half seen: "I cant see you whole, but I can only remember a mere glimpse of your existance." Memory here behaves like the phases of the moon.
The ending refuses to choose between two readings. Either she is a fading glimpse, or she is "keeping me company through the darkness of the night." That brings the poem back to its first image of darkness, which is no longer only the backdrop that makes her visible but the place where she might still be present.
What makes the poem worth reading is the way it gives friendship the language usually kept for romance, and the way it pays attention to the person who gives and gives and is never given back to. Its central idea is that those who light the way for others are rarely seen whole, and that loving them partly means admitting how little of them you were allowed to see. The poem ends on a question, which is honest, because the speaker does not know the answer either.