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Letters to

               the Moon

London bridge is falling down, falling down . . . . 


. . . . the melody echoes in the shadows, vibrating the walls I find myself in. Each decibel of sound landing on the drywall and exiting through the window. The weathered sheet of glass strains my youthful eyes without relief. Framed is the night sky, delicately painted with stars and dust and the brightness that comes from a far away spectator. A stranger at first, but with time the moniker lost, replaced with the role of companion. A silent keeper of my thoughts, trusted through repetition and admired by devotion.

I daydream without the sun.


Envious of the solitude that could come with belonging. The current of this world grows me tired, how I’ve dreamt of change.


Aged thoughts these have become, but they’re spilling out again. They join the nursery rhyme and drift out the window. A uniqueness hangs in the air tonight, their waving hands consumed with hesitation as they bid me farewell, as if known to them our paths will not cross again. Perhaps it is them whom I’ve grown tired of.


Each thought a weighted book on the shelves that house my existence. 

I will let them go on this night, for the moon shines bright. 


All around me the reflection of its mass illuminating places to go, things to see, tossing away the need for bags under my eyes. Watching over me, a beacon of a tender unknown. A place without comfort but a place with promise. I will rest tonight within these four walls. For they may have resembled a prison, but there is no lock. When I awake from my slumber, I will greet the sun. Although a stranger, it too will begin to learn my shadow.