What the Moon Keeps

The moon has heard every confession ever whispered from a bedroom window. Every I love you said to a sky that wasn't listening. Every promise made at midnight to a person who was already asleep. The moon doesn't judge. This is what makes it better company than most people. I used to think the moon was romantic. All those poems, all those songs, all those lovers pointing upward and saying: we're both looking at the same moon. But the moon is not romantic. The moon is honest. It shows you exactly how much light it has— which is none. It's all borrowed. And maybe that's the most beautiful thing: something that has no light of its own but still manages to illuminate an entire night. Sounds like everyone I've ever loved. The moon waxes. The moon wanes. It disappears entirely and people panic for a second before remembering that this is what the moon does: it comes back. Always. Every time. Without fail. Without being asked. I want to love like the moon loves the dark— not by fighting it, not by replacing it, but by showing up with whatever light I've managed to borrow and letting that be enough.