MoonDreamer

I stand beneath a sky that never calls back,
just watches me wander its endless sea.
Each constellation a fading map,
leading somewhere that won’t come for me.

I whisper wishes into frozen air,
tie them to stars that refuse to fall.
But the universe doesn’t seem to care—
it just keeps expanding beyond it all.

and the moon doesn’t need replies.

So I drift between dying constellations

with silence stitched behind my eyes.

No gravity to hold me,

no ground beneath my feet.

Just the hum of distant galaxies

and memories I can’t delete.

I float past broken planets,

past comets burning blue,

wondering if the universe

ever aches the way I do.

Maybe that’s why space feels endless—

it was built from lonely things.

From people learning how to survive

without the comfort gravity brings.

Still, somewhere in the dark,

a faint light calls my name.

And for a moment while I’m drifting,

My thoughts spiral endlessly as I slowly lose control.

You say I’m a lover, but lately I’m losing my spark.

I’ve been trapped in a dark place, almost like a wormhole.

Whenever I catch a glimpse of happiness, I can’t help but smile.

I think I broke

the moment you let me feel it—

not fully,

just enough to stay.

Enough of your warmth

to haunt my hands,

enough of your lips

to ruin the rest.

Now I live in that space

between almost and never,

where you touched me like I mattered

The world cracked me open, splintered my quiet sky.

I fell through the noise, learned what silence meant.

But in the wreckage a shimmer broke through- a rainbow, soft and stubborn, taught me how to start again.

The darkness has found me tonight

Trying to take me away from all that matters.

It sits in the corner under a soft light

And watches as my heart shatters.

One last battle to end it all

Or will I be able to get up from the fall.

This pain isn’t for the weak

For you’d probably run if you even had a peak.

The emotions I carry upon my back are to much for most

I just don’t want the people I love to see me as a ghost.

So to the man sitting in the corner under the soft light

The moon doesn’t ask me questions—

she just watches

like she already knows

how it felt to be held

and then unheld

without warning.

I swear she leans closer

on nights like this,

pulling the tide out of my chest

until everything I buried

comes rushing back—

your voice,

your hands,

the way I almost believed

I was finally chosen.

There’s something cruel

about how soft your memory is.

It doesn’t bruise loud—

it lingers,

like silver light

spilling across a dark room

I can’t escape.

I tried to forget you

the way clouds forget the sky,

but you stayed—

stitched into me

like constellations I never learned the names of,

only how to feel.

And the moon—

she understands this kind of loneliness.

She spends every night

aching toward something

she can never touch,

still showing up

full of light

that isn’t even hers.

Maybe that’s what breaks me most—

how I keep glowing for you

in borrowed pieces,

how I orbit a moment

that’s already gone.

If I could,

I’d pull you out of my bloodstream,

set you gently in the sky,

and call it closure.

But instead,

I lie here

half-lit,

half-empty,

learning how to survive

being full of someone

who chose

the sun is too loud to hold.

She hangs in the dark

like a listening ear,

silver and patient.

She watches tides remember

what the land forgets,

pulling at the hidden waters in us,

reminding hearts

they were never meant to be still.

Scarred, yes—

but still luminous.

Proof that even after impact,

after breaking,

we can glow without burning.

The moon does not rush.

She waxes, she wanes,

teaching the sky

that absence is not loss—

only a different kind of presence.

And when the night feels endless,

she offers borrowed light,

a promise whispered across space:

You don’t have to shine alone