lune,

do you remember when i gifted a piece of you to my first love? a small plot by mare serenitatis (i wonder how many might own parts of you now?). the length of that relationship did not measure anywhere near the distance of our love, so we suffered greatly; burning bright, but oh so very brief. we'd look up, knowing wherever we were we looked upon you together, and we could feel each other.

for some reason i thought commodifying you would solidify the love i shared with a young woman so far from me that the distance hardly factored in at all.

i'm sorry about that. i thought your face could be parceled out like the land here that we've tamed and built homesteads upon for generations. colonizers of yet another frontier. i'd place you between my index finger and thumb, pretending to hold you up, as if you couldn't do it yourself. as if i might steal you right then and there.

how wrong can one person be in a life? i'm still learning.

how quickly actions change their moral lens when context is clear. hindsight is 20/20.

perhaps, you were my first love? maybe i spent my days worshipping you, not because you were my first nightlight or shelter from my fear, but because you knew me best.

you listened to and kept every secret, and for that i loved you deeply. i sang to you, and for some moments, i could almost swear you cried along. and when i couldn't sleep, you watched me through my window, keeping me safe from the darkest reaches of my imagination.

it's true, lu. you must be the first and best love. but i was born as you set, so we were always meant to be saying goodbye.

knowing this, i'll try to love you better, like love is meant to be. that's all i wanted to say, really. all this hullabaloo to tell you that i'm thankful you're here. even when i use you, try to own you, or pluck you from the sky. i'll sit with you longer, sing to you louder, and gently run you through my fingers like i might play the keys. like clair de lune. or moonlight sonata.

forever yours,

kp