moon
It is with a thoughtful glance the Moon of our bedtime stories, a crescent with distinguishable facial features; shadows create a roman nose and whistling lips. It is the Jolly Moon, the witness of the romance between the dish and the spoon.
While the evening is new, transparent birthmarks of cloud pass over but rarely obscure it, the Moon’s gentle streams of light poke through. These swathes of vapour give the orb a new identity; the head of a butterfly or undeniable personification by trails of smoke from those dented lips.
This particular Moon is so beautiful that it urges you let down your guard, call a crush and ask if they can see it too. It is your friend and the measure of a person. You could rely on a reaction towards the Moon to judge a demeanor entirely.
As any evidence of the day disappears, the Moon plays peekaboo behind the twilight clouds and across rooftops. Like thick black sheets of the night creeping over they block the rays of light. Slithering across like the silent ink of a lamp turned off and the darkness that leaves your eyeballs darting, attempting to adjust and understand. But it soon breaks through again, testing your attention and clarifying your loyalty.
The Moon is also tinged with melancholy, this special moment and it’s radiance during the walk home cannot be translated in a photograph and shall only remain in memory; which these days is fragile and sometimes doesn’t feel proof enough.
It be will there all night, suspended in that bizarre realm, a symbol of passing time while the earth tilts on it’s axis and the position of the stars shift. It will stay on the other side of drawn curtains. Keeping watch and humming perhaps as indoors we numb ourselves with the soundtrack of evening television. The crucial regard we held for the Moon during that walk home slowly fades as consciousness lulls. It will be there tomorrow night. And the night after that. But in a different form, more portly, it’s beauty fading as it expands and the craters of it’s upward turned mouth uncrease.
