There's No Loving the Moon
Iāve never been in love.
Not the kind youād dream about, and not the kind youād dread.
Iāve never been kissed. Not for lack of wanting, and not for complete lack of opportunity.
I almost fell once, almost gave in to the hell that is hiding for someone who lacks the courage to to leave the draw of āexpectedā.
I was already plunging into the depths, accepting my place, when she swam to the surface and wandered away as if I wasnāt still sruggling to escape; as if she wasnāt the reason Iād taken the risk of drowning.
I could have kissed her, and that might have changed something. Maybe she wouldnāt have saved me the choice and turned away from my longing hands; the Ocean did not embrace me like I had hoped. Instead, she left me behind.
A wayward star drew my attention. And kept it, too, for a while.
He was gravity. The sort of pull I didnāt get from the Ocean. His pull was light, inviting me in.
I held fast to the warmth radiating from his arms. He accepted me, he wanted me, and drank up every bit of the attention I gave him.
But itās dangerous to hang around a dying star, no matter how much the longing kept me going.
Too much wanting can be bad. My Star knew he was dying, he knew he didnāt know how to stop it, and he thought⦠with every fiber of his being he thought I could save him. That I could become the center of his universe, and keep him alive.
I knew I would die with him if I stayed. That the pieces of me would be mercilessly dragged into the black hole he would become; so I left my blazing red star to preserve what little of me there was left.
Searching for the same draw, I came up empty every time. I spent a year trying to yearn for someone who didnāt fit. The Sun felt like my dying star, at first.
The Moon admires the Sun, and is glad to bask in her warmth, but never truly longs for her.
And it wasnāt the same. We both could tell we were a momentary comfort in each others worlds, although I fear my Sun did love me.
She isnāt a danger like the red giant. For a moment, it seemed she might whither into nothingness, but she soon returned bright as ever. The Sun has everything ahead of her, no matter if she falters.
The Earth was right there still, with her salty depths and clear-water lakes, with greenery reaching towards the moon in a way that smelt of belonging.
I couldnāt have ever touched the Earth, and so I continued to drift. Holding onto every sliver of warmth the Sun gave me, for she was all I had.
The Earth, for all her beauty and consistency, was just that- consistent. And the Moon has never been able to touch the Earth and her Oceans. Not quite.
The Sun stays in my view. Every so often I get to feel her warmth again, when she graces me with a āhow are youā or an āIām proudā.
There was never any bitterness. When it comes to each other weāre mind readers, so adept at our craft that even months of radio-silence canāt change our pace. Out of everyone in the world, my Sun knows me best, and I loath that I canāt love her.
Sometimes fear coils and writhes in my chest.
I compare myself to the moon far too much- and since the moon cannot truly touch anything around her, I wonder if Iām also destined to be alone. To be admired from afar, briefly, to be touched by the not-so-gentle hands of men and laid claim to before Iām left to continue my watching. To sit and wait.
Itās lucky Iām not really the moon. I can move and breathe, and I have the Earth under my feet.
Iāve determined that I wonāt die without having felt that evasive thing pulling at my soul. I will not lose myself to the despair of wanting, and that is why I will get what I want.
My own soul is the one Iāll love first, and when Iāve mastered that, Iāll let myself be torn apart by the torturous thrill of experience. Iām not the moon, sitting high in the sky where no one can touch her.
Iām human. And no matter who believes they can claim me or cast me aside, no matter how many hands grab for me, no matter how many voices claim āmine,ā āMine,ā āMINE!ā I am the only one I belong to. And I am not the moon.
There's no Loving the Moon.