Dear Moon,

Dear Moon, I’m writing from the dressing room,

still painted in your borrowed bloom.

The crowd has gone, the air is thin,

and I am half the girl I’ve been.

Your silver gaze through cracked marquee

unbuttons what’s left here of me.

You’ve watched my heart in silk disguise—

a spark beneath the stage’s eyes.

They call me grace, they call me flame,

but when they leave, I mouth your name.

You’re every light I can’t undo,

each song I sing that isn’t true.

I’ve danced for saints and shadows too,

spun circles just to fall toward you.

My laughter breaks like chandelier glass,

softly, so no one sees it pass.

Tell me, moon—if you were me,

would you trade the hush for reverie?

Or would you, with your endless view,

grow lonely shining on what’s through?

The mirror dims, the powder fades,

the ghost of perfume, the price I’ve paid.

Still, you stay—my patient twin,

to gather what I scatter in.

So keep my secrets, pale and kind,

forgive the glitter I leave behind.

If ever you tire of your height—

come down, and be my closing light.

(signed in lipstick, crescent red)

—Your Showgirl