Lunar Lament
2 a.m. Thoughts
The hum of the fridge and the hiss of the radiator fill the quiet, but when I look up, the crescent moon hangs like a delicate thread in the night. It feels like an invitation: a single silver seat for anyone yearning for somewhere else. I imagine climbing onto that narrow curve, knees tucked, and watching the world below shrink to a quiet blue marble.
From up there, everything blurs into the distance. Unfinished drafts, stalled ambitions, versions of myself that never arrived—all of it dissolves into flecks of color, like cities glimpsed from thirty thousand feet. Breathing would be easy, unhindered by the clutter of everyday life. Time would unfurl like a vast ribbon, slow and deliberate, letting longing unfold without fraying at the edges.
I picture the physics. One-sixth gravity means restlessness feels lighter. The desire pressing against my ribs would rise, buoyant like helium, floating in front of me until I could examine it, trace every curve, even smile at its improbable shape. Tears would form perfect glass spheres, stubbornly refusing to fall. I would keep them, proof that yearning turns beautiful once it stops spilling down your shirt.
The crescent’s in-between state offers its own solace. Not full, not gone—just becoming. That’s me: neither fixed in what was nor anchored to what could be. I would sit there, a witness to my own limbo, until the edge of dawn threatened. And then I’d ask Earth to wait, to hold back the sun a few breaths longer, because I’m still learning the lighter way to want.
When daylight finally pulls me back, I slip through the sky, pockets clinking with moonlit tears, a spirit lighter than before. No one will know I was gone, but I’ll walk differently, like someone who’s learned that even the heaviest longing can float once you carry it far enough into the dark.