A Lopsided Moon

You ever feel the sky leaning in,

like it’s got something half-finished to say?

The air tonight tastes like old secrets—

carbon warmth clinging to skin,

your hand flickering through mine

like static on a half-tuned radio.

We didn’t mean to fall into myth,

but here we are,

trading jokes under a stretch of sky

stitched with phantom stars.

Your laugh breaks something in me—

not in the shattering way,

more like a door I forgot was there

creaking open

to somewhere I used to dream from.

You say the moon’s drunk again,

off-kilter and kind of smug,

dragging tides like love letters

we’ll never post.

I tell you I’m tired of waiting

for the “right time.”

You sip your coffee like prophecy

and just nod.

—but then—

Somewhere mid-sentence,

the world pivots.

A quiet hush,

like the cosmos holding its breath

as we rewrite the ending

with bare hands

and unfinished sentences.

Now, I see you—

not just you as you are,

but you as you could be,

as I hope you are

when no one’s looking.

We laugh again,

but this time it’s different,

the sound deeper,

weighted—

like roots stretching toward something ancient,

something that knows

love is less about fireworks

and more about

the steady light you forget to notice

until everything else goes dark.