Waiting for the Moon to Sing It Back to Me

I hum a song the wind once knew

soft like dusk folding into the sea.

It slips from my lips, weightless,

drifting toward the silver hush of night.

Above, the moon—mute, unmoved—

a quiet witness to every note lost

between sighs and forgotten prayers.

I wonder if it listens if it remembers.

Wasn’t it you who hummed first?

Before we named love, before longing

Learned to wear a voice?

Before echoes grew tired of returning?

I wait, palms open, throat hollow,

for even a whisper—

a single thread of melody spun

from light and distance, from something more.

But silence hums louder than I do,

and the moon, pale and indifferent,

only sings to those who already know the tune.