Letter Left Beneath the Moon

Dear Moon,

I’m writing from the edge of another sleepless evening.

The city hums like a tired machine,

and yet you rise — slow, patient,

as if you’ve never lost faith in repetition.

I used to think you watched me out of habit,

a distant guardian who pitied the restless.

But tonight, I want to believe

you see me the way I once saw hope —

small, flickering, but alive.

Do you remember when I was a child

and whispered wishes into your light?

I thought you stored them somewhere —

in your craters, maybe,

beside the dust of dreams

no one else wanted to keep.

Now I don’t wish anymore.

I just talk.

Because you’re the only one

who never answers and never leaves.

Sometimes I wonder

if you get lonely up there,

listening to all of us

confessing things we’ll never say aloud.

Maybe that’s why you glow —

you’re full of everyone’s secrets.

I’ve sent you so many versions of myself:

the boy who wanted to be seen,

the man who wanted to disappear,

the one who still can’t decide

which hurts more.

If you can, keep this letter

between the shadows of your craters.

Let it rest beside the quiet I never learned to hold.

I’m not asking for light —

I’ve learned that even reflection is enough.

And when morning comes,

when you fade into something no one notices,

remember this —

someone down here still writes to you,

not because you answer,

but because silence sometimes feels like love

when it comes from you.