The Last Time I Saw the Moon

The last time I saw the moon,

it lingered low above the rooftops,

a pale coin tossed into a velvet well.

I remember how the light bent through the trees,

silver caught in branches

like paper lanterns torn by the wind.

I didn’t know it would be goodbye.

How could I?

The night felt endless,

my steps easy,

my hands warm with borrowed brightness.

Since then the dark has grown thicker,

the stars retreating further each season,

and though the sky still opens

with its hollow of silence,

the moon no longer waits for me there.

I speak its name sometimes

like a prayer gone hoarse,

like a friend I should have held longer.

Memory is a soft betrayal—

it gives me shapes but not the glow,

the outline but not the breathing heart.

The last time I saw the moon

it was whole, unbroken,

yet I walked away as though

it would follow me forever.

Now I carry only the shadow of its gaze,

an afterimage pressed

against the window of my mind,

fading slowly,

but refusing to leave.