The Moon Remembers My Name

The night unfolds like a quiet book,

Each star a word,

Each cloud a page turned by the wind.

And at the center of it all,

The moon watches.

She is not distant—

She is near,

A lantern hung just above my thoughts.

Her silver face bends toward me,

A witness to the story I never told aloud.

I have walked through streets where no one knew me,

Passed faces that turned away,

Carried dreams in trembling hands,

Only to see them fall like broken glass.

The world forgets.

But the moon remembers my name.

When I was a child,

I believed the moon followed me home,

Floating above the rooftops,

Guarding my sleep with her soft, pale glow.

Even then, she whispered my name

As though it was carved into her light.

Through lonely nights of youth,

When my heart split under the weight of silence,

I found myself writing secrets into the air.

No one answered,

No one heard—

Except the moon.

She did not reply with words,

But with a steady calm,

A glow that told me:

You are seen. You are not lost.

Lovers came—

Promises wrapped in warmth,

Smiles written across the sky of my days.

And then they left,

Taking pieces of me with them,

Leaving only echoes of what once was.

Yet in the ruins,

The moon remained.

She held the fragments I dropped,

Kept them in her orbit of memory.

Even when I forgot who I was becoming,

She carried the truth like a vow.

The moon remembers my name.

I have stood at graveyards,

Whispering farewells I could not finish.

I have knelt in prayer,

My hands shaking,

Asking for answers that never came.

Still, above the tears,

The moon kept shining—

A reminder that not all silence is empty.

Sometimes I think the moon is scarred

Because she holds the grief of every soul.

Craters like wounds,

Etched by the weight of human sorrow.

And yet she glows,

Radiant despite the fractures—

A mirror of survival itself.

In her I see myself:

Broken, but not destroyed.

Scarred, but still shining.

Remembered, even when the world forgets.

On sleepless nights I speak again—

To the shadows, to the stars,

To the soft silver ear of the moon.

And she listens,

Patient, eternal,

Carrying my name through the tides,

Through centuries I will never see.

The truth is,

We are all afraid of being erased—

Afraid our voices will scatter like dust,

Afraid no one will remember we were here.

But the moon—

The moon is memory itself.

She reflects us back to ourselves,

Holds our stories in her glow,

And in her gentle silence,

She promises:

You are part of something infinite. You are not forgotten.

Tonight, as I stand under her light,

My chest heavy with both loss and longing,

I hear it once more—

A whisper without sound,

A voice that belongs to eternity:

“I remember your name.”

And in that moment,

I am whole again.