The Night the Moon Wrote Back

Dear Moon,

The night she left,

the house forgot how to breathe.

Even the clocks slowed,

as if time itself refused to move on.

I sat by the window,

wrapped in a silence that felt too alive,

and there you were —

pale, patient, unblinking.

I wanted to hate your calm.

How dare you shine

when everything else had gone dark?

But then I saw her there,

in your glow —

not as she was,

but as light itself.

For a moment,

the grief loosened its grip.

It didn’t disappear —

it just sat beside me,

quiet, like an old friend who finally understood.

You’ve always been that way, haven’t you?

Holding what the earth can’t.

Carrying our prayers,

our secrets,

our unfinished goodbyes.

People call you distant,

but I know better.

You listen harder than most hearts do.

Now, when I look up,

I don’t ask for signs anymore.

I just watch,

and sometimes, if the night is still enough,

I swear I hear her laughter

echoing in your light.

You remind me that love doesn’t vanish —

it just changes its form.

That loss is only another kind of gravity,

keeping us tethered to what mattered most.

So, Moon,

if you see her —

tell her I’m learning.

Tell her I still talk to her

through you.

And tell her

I’ll keep looking up.

Until we meet again,

keep shining for both of us.

— E.G.