The Moon Didn’t Show Up That Night

The moon didn’t show up that night.

No silver halo carved the dark,

no quiet glow to soften sorrow’s sharp edges.

Just sky—

bare, black, and endless,

like grief dressed in velvet.

I waited anyway.

You used to say

the moon never misses a chance to listen.

But that night, it did.

And so I whispered into nothing,

hoping absence could still echo.

The porch swing creaked like a mourning hymn,

its chains weeping rust from time.

I sat wrapped in your old sweater,

the one that still holds

the scent of rain,

and the ghost of your laughter.

The garden lay still,

petunias folded like tired hands.

Even the wind forgot to breathe.

Not a single cricket dared to sing.

The night was holding its breath—

as if it, too, feared breaking.

Where does light go

when it doesn’t show?

Does it hide in old photo frames,

in the corner of tear-glossed eyes,

or in the lull between

what we lost and what we remember?

The moon didn’t rise,

but I still looked for you—

in the shape of the trees,

in the hush of the stars,

in the stories I told myself

so I wouldn’t come undone.

I thought healing would come with brightness.

But I’ve learned

sometimes, it comes with sitting in the dark,

learning the names of your sorrow,

and letting them speak.

So I stayed.

On that creaking swing,

beneath the empty sky.

And for the first time,

the silence didn’t scare me.

It felt like a hand on my shoulder.

It felt like yours.