The moon is heavy. She rests on your chest like the weight of a lover, breathes cool air on your neck like the body of a hug.
A spider on a web, she hangs from the sky. You look up at her and ask,
“What am I worth? What am I here for? What am I, knowing that someday I will fade while you will not?”
With her light beaming on you, she responds,
“You are my anchor, my heart. You are what keeps me grounded, what binds the sea to me and what ties one life to another.
You are the life the ocean gives. You are the life you’ve always lived.”
The moon is heavy. She cradles you in her arms and holds you close to her bosom. Her head rests on your shoulder, her hand caresses your face, her heart thumps in monotony, in companionship, in gratitude.
When you look at the moon, you wonder how much she has seen. How many people look at her each night? How many people have drawn her, have sung to her, have loved her? When the seasons change, the nights grow longer and you grow wearier.
The moon shines above you each time you gasp in the outside air, when the sun sets and the other stars begin to show. Your heart becomes encompassed by the moon, encapsulated by the shadows of her hands and attuned to the melody of her voice. The moon calls to you each night, she talks to you, and you rarely know what to say.
Is she satisfied with the way Earth works? Does she wonder what it’s like to be down here—in dirt and clay and mud—so mortal and so fleeting? Will she one day tire of being so great and benevolent, our light in the merciless dark?
She is heavy. She is valiant. She is haunting.
You lay awake at night, and she is there. You doze in fitful sleep, and she watches. You mourn frail things and rip apart your flesh, and she listens.
But in the end when you do start to fade, she will be resting on your shoulder, telling you that in your next life, she will meet you again.
Visual Credit: Rajana Chhin