Dear Moon

Dear Moon,

This is your final notice that your rent is due.

No threats, no fireworks—just a line item

in the ledger of a tired sky.

You’ve been behind for years,

and I’ve stopped pretending the light you give

counts as payment.

Once, you were gold—

a muse on retainer,

lighting drunks and dreamers

like cigarette tips in the dark.

You pulled tides and tempers—

explorers to adventure, and adventurers home.

You gave wolves something holy to aim their throats at.

Now it’s just cargo tankers scheduled to shipping lanes,

their wakes the only poetry left on the water.

You made night feel romantic—

all velvet and promise,

the kind of dark that forgave us for being human.

But now your glow’s been pawned

for brighter bullshit.

Billboards jeer your name in neon,

and phone screens glow like solitary campfires for one—

each face lit by its own private wilderness.

no swelling accordians, no Amore—

just Spotify ads reminding us

to subscribe and upgrade for a quiet we used to have for free.

No one looks up anymore.

We’ve traded rooftop romances and cheap wine laughter

for tired nurses on their smoke breaks,

scrolling the same loop of light

just to stay awake.

Even the wolves are gone—

reduced to figures we use to set forestry quotas,

their howls just data now.

You’ve gone from goddess to background noise,

another tab left open in the sky.

I’m not mad, just disappointed

we let it come to this.

The lease is up, old tenant.

Take your craters, your cold flare, your silver swagger—

go haunt some quieter orbit.

I’ll miss the nights you kept me company,

even as you slipped behind the towers.

If you ever swing back round,

I’ll leave a porchlight burning—

dim, maybe, but still yours.

With reluctant affection,

Your Landlord