UNDER THE SAME MOON

This evening, the full moon rose—

clear, luminous—

and then slipped behind rippled clouds,

like waves passing over light.

White bled into grey,

grey into black,

until the sky felt composed, deliberate,

as if it had decided to paint.

We say it looks like a painting,

even though paintings come from this very sight.

Maybe because art teaches us how to pause.

How to notice.

How to stay.

The moon does something strange to us.

It doesn’t belong to anyone,

yet it carries names we never say out loud.

Someone who is far.

Or absent.

Or unsaid.

Perhaps it’s because the moon is constant but unreachable—

seen by many, held by none.

Like certain loves.

Like certain memories.

Standing there, watching it slip in and out of clouds,

I realised this:

Somewhere, you are under this same moon.

Unaware of the weight it carries for me.

And I am here,

holding a feeling

that has nowhere to go.

That’s the quiet ache of it—

we don’t share the moment,

we don’t share the night,

we don’t even share the knowing.

Only the moon does.

And it keeps you

when I cannot.