Dear Moon

Dear Moon,

You always arrive without knocking,

spilling silver across my window,

as if to remind me that distance can still be tender.

Do you remember that night I first spoke to you?

I was small, lost,

and you were whole, round, and listening.

Since then, you’ve been the one I never had to explain myself to.

I’ve watched you fade, and return again,

like a promise that even darkness is only temporary.

When the world forgets to breathe,

you hold the sky steady.

Some nights you look tired—

thin as a memory,

a whisper caught between the tides.

Other nights, you are bold,

a mirror too bright for my human eyes.

I wonder if you ever grow lonely

in your endless orbit,

watching us rise and fall,

build and break,

love and leave.

Still, you never turn away.

You keep shining,

for poets, for wanderers,

for the sleepless and the dreamers alike.

Tonight, I write this not to ask,

but to thank you—

for staying,

for lighting the edges of every unspoken word.

If you can hear me,

send your light through the window once more,

so I’ll know

you’re still listening.

— Yours, always watching,

a soul beneath your silver gaze.