A Letter to the Moon

You have always watched me, haven't you?

From the quiet side of night, where light softens into darkness and the world forgets I exist.

I have walked beneath you like a ghost.

Barefoot on summer pavement, or wrapped in winter snow, my hands in my pockets as though I could hide anything from you.

You, ancient confidant.

Older than every sorrow I have tried to bury.

Older than every joy I was afraid to keep.

You have seen the rise of kings, the prayers of paupers, and the face of every soul who ever lived.

Yet when I look up, it is always personal.

Like you tilt just a little toward me.

Like you lean closer, listening.

I admit, I have offered you my regrets, the ones I folded small and kept in my chest.

I have spoken your name instead of another's just to feel something reliable.

I have asked you questions you could never answer, and I have pretended the silence was enough.

But you never told.

Not the world, not the dawn, not even the stars.

Tonight, I write only to say that your light has been a witness, a quiet accomplice to the person I am only when the day turns to night.

Stay with me a little longer.

I am still learning how to be seen.