the moon as a thing that can be consumed
you stumble into the moon on your way to your dorm, spilling leftover pad thai all over her. you apologize profusely. she laughs, clear and bright, while you scoop up cold noodles from the ground.
it is spring, and flowers are pushing themselves up from the soil. sunlight is a meal that is chewed and swallowed and licked from the lips of the living.
on your way to class, the moon stops you. you open your mouth to apologize again, but she gets her words out first.
"hey, um, you probably don't know me super well, but we have a class together,"
she stops. her next sentence comes out faster,
"-and you're really cute and i was wondering if maybe you wanted to get some coffee together later?"
she twists a strand of hair behind her ear and smiles a bit awkwardly. you do not think she remembers your pad thai.
you are walking your dog. the moon reflects off the wet path. you do not stumble. your dog pulls on his leash, and you follow him.
the moon is making omelets in your kitchen. you walk up behind her, rest your chin on her shoulder. she asks you to pass her some shredded cheese. you hum, and know she can feel it against her back. you are not this far in the story yet, you do not even know if you like omelets. i will not take this from you though.
the moon asks you out for coffee, and you tell her
"oh i'm sorry. i actually have a test tomorrow that i really should study for tonight, but do you want my number? we can work something out later this week maybe?"
you write out your number on her forearm with a pen you stole from the bank. or maybe it was a career fair? it has a little cat on it. you really are sorry.
it is cloudy. you don't take your dog outside today, the weather calls for rain. you consider how it could be a full moon or a whole moon and you would never know. this thought is marvelous to you somehow.
you end up going out for coffee with the moon on a thursday, and she orders a chai latte. you get an iced coffee. when she looks up at you, she has a little foam on her lip. you think about how it is impossible to truly know what you cannot see. you can see the foam on her lip, and do not know what to make of it regardless.
the moon is watching a girl drink iced coffee. she is watching the girl's lips on the straw. the moon is watching a great many things. the moon is still a girl though, and knows the other girl is also watching her.
it's a clear night tonight, but you can't really see the stars. light pollution and all that. the moon is there though, a crescent like a slice of watermelon. the moon's head is in your lap. you can't see the stars, but you can feel the moon's hair between your fingers.
when you are 7, you learn that the moon does not disappear during the day, you just cannot see it. you imagine the sun like an eye, closing at night. you imagine the moon like a hole poked through the sky. you imagine that the moon is a girl in the same way that you are a girl.
you are in the car, watching the moon. it does not matter how old you are this time, you are somehow always in the car watching the moon. it follows you, even though you know it is not following you. it is a hole poked in the sky, stationary.
the moon, a little later on, is driving the car. you watch the road, and the moon, and the sky, and wonder whether any of it was stationary at all.
you are not the moon, and you are not a girl in love with the moon. the girl as the moon, not the moon as the moon. You grew up in love with the stars, but you can't really see them. light pollution and all. you do not know how you can love something you can't see. it is still love.
the girl in love with the moon is holding the moon's hand. it is sticky with fruit juice and summertime. the sun sits like a mango in the sky. they do not wash their hands just yet.
somewhere, in this great vast universe, there are many more moons. they are not your moon though, and your brain cannot really comprehend an ever-expanding universe that is folding in on itself like a rose in bloom. the universe is really very big
the moon is laying on your floor. you are laying in your floor. your dog is laying on your couch. he is not supposed to be there, and yet there he is.
you are still not the moon, or the girl in love with the moon. you are graduating soon, and could end up being either of them. this thought is not so marvelous, you like being sure of things. you think of the stars, how they are still almost invisible. you are in love with them, but it is a love like written word. you think that maybe your idea of love is different than that of the moon's. you think too much-or maybe not enough? not in the right way, you settle on. the moon and the girl are in love, and you are not.
the girl looks at the moon, who is frying pancakes in the commons of your building. it is 2am, and the girl is not hungry for pancakes. she will eat them anyway, because there in something in her that needs to be filled.
the moon holds the girl's cheeks in her palms. the girl's eyes shine. the moon is not the moon right now, but feels like she is reflecting the light of the sun still. something sits heavy in her throat, it is not a word.
who am i to say what love is? are the moon and the girl in love? do they need to be? they are both illuminated in this moment, two girls seeking something out and finding each other. who am i to say that i love the stars when it is more a memory of them. i am seeking something out too.
a dog is watching two girls sleep, all gangly limbs and boneless exhaustion. they lay tangled against each other. when one shifts, the other also shifts. they are breathing together. when they wake up, they might make pancakes. or omelets. the dog does not mind either way.
the moon as a girl watches the moon as the moon. it is funny, she supposes, that she can be two things at once.
a blind girl is in love with the stars. her stars are different than my stars. her love is not different than my love. it must be love.
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