Dear, Moon

Dear Moon,

I’m writing because you feel like the only other one in this life that understands the texture of emptiness. You hover as a witness coldly carved out of stone. You shine like something that has already learned what it means to be alone. I wish I could tell you I see a way through the days, but most of the time they feel like repetitions of the same dull ache. There’s a kind of quiet suffering in simply existing when nothing pulls you forward. Yet somehow, I keep moving, even though the movement feels hollow.

You must understand the emptiness; you float in it. Your glow whispers to me, even though your light isn’t your own and never was. You are victimized by necessity, making your rounds as a servant does. Is gravity all that binds you? What keeps you from drifting off into the cold where no one can find you? Maybe you don’t know either; maybe even celestials wander without reason. Maybe that’s why I look at you when nothing else makes sense.

Some nights I tell you that I don’t know why I’m continuing. You already know this confession before I shape it into sound. You hold the silence steady, letting the world fall away around. It’s not courage that keeps me in motion, if anything, it’s a kind of quiet madness. That same strange gravitational pull that refuses to let me sink completely. Maybe it’s instinct, or maybe the void becomes comforting after enough rotations.

So I leave you this letter, for no reason I can discern. You drift through the sky on a path you can’t break. You glow with a persistence you never chose to make. Somehow that resignation mirrors my own. A life carried forward not by hope but by momentum. And under your dim witness, I survive another night without knowing why.