The Moon Doesn't Owe the Sun an Explanation

She rises when the world sleeps,
cloaked in silver silence,
a keeper of secrets
the sun could never bear.

She doesn’t chase light —
she reflects it, bends it,
wears it like a quiet crown.
And still, they ask her why
she’s never as bright,
never as loud,
never as warm.

But the moon owes no apology
for glowing in shadows,
for ruling tides instead of time.
She knows the power
in soft things—
in phases,
in patience,
in pulling oceans with a glance.

Let the sun boast.
Let him blaze and blind.
She’ll keep orbiting
in her sacred rhythm,
turning dark into beauty,
absence into presence.

Not lesser—just different.
Not silent—just still.

The moon doesn't owe
the sun
an explanation.

She is enough,
even in pieces.