Letter to La Luna

You have followed me

through lifetimes—

through smoke, moss, and bone,

through the long hush between stars.

You remember, don’t you,

how I once wore your light

like a second skin.

How I carried your reflection

inside my lungs

until it transmuted to song.

I have walked through worlds

with your face etched into me,

half shadow, half remembered,

a disciple of your silence.

Each night I lift my eyes,

and you rise like forgiveness—

slow, deliberate,

as if you understand

the weight of what I’ve become.

You’ve watched me fracture

and reform,

watched me fall to earth

again and again.

Each descent a prayer

I never quite finished.

Still, you waited—

pulled by the tide,

faithful as breath.

Now, I write to you

not as worshiper or witness,

but as kin returning home.

I offer what remains of me—

ash, word, and echo—

the small flame

I salvaged from the dark.

If you can hear me

through the hum of your own gravity,

know this:

I have not forgotten

the secret you whispered

before I was born—

that light is only holy

when it learns how to break.

So take this letter,

fold it into your craters,

and keep it safe.

I am still becoming,

but I am no longer lost.

Tonight,

I rise with you.