Letters in Silver Light

Dear Moon,

You always arrive without knocking —

slipping through my curtains like breath,

turning my clutter into constellations.

I should have written sooner.

You’ve watched me rehearse goodbyes

in windows that forgot how to close.

Some nights you look like a bruise,

soft and purple with remembering.

Other nights, you’re sharp as forgiveness,

cutting through every excuse I’ve tried to keep.

Do you remember when I was twelve

and told you I’d never be afraid of the dark?

You laughed — I swear you did —

and the clouds rolled over you

like blankets pulled by tired gods.

Now I’m older, and fear has grown polite.

It knocks, asks if I have a moment.

I offer it tea, sometimes dinner.

You still hang above the mess, patient,

collecting my silences like old letters.

I wonder what you do with them —

all those unmailed things we whisper up.

Do you sort them by ache or apology?

Do you keep them in some silver drawer

where loneliness goes to rest?

Tonight I’m not asking for answers.

Just to know you’re still awake,

still holding this fragile orbit

between what was promised and what remains.

If you can, hum the song

you sang to oceans before language.

I’ll listen. I always do.

— Yours in borrowed light,

The One Still Looking Up