Some nights,
I think about what it would be like
to vanish into the moon and stars —
not as some grand escape,
just as someone who’s had enough noise for a lifetime.
Up there,
the dark night sky doesn’t ask questions.
The waning moon keeps to itself,
fading without apology,
returning without ceremony.
I imagine wearing that quiet
like a second skin.
I wouldn’t have to explain
why I rise when no one is watching,
or why I disappear
when the coffee starts brewing downstairs.
Distance has a way
of making even the storms seem polite.
Lately, I’ve been
that were never meant to hold dreams,
hearing the wrong songs play in my chest,
my voice fraying at the edges.
It’s strange —
how a story can take years to start,
or maybe never be written at all.
Still, somewhere in the cracks,
in the hollow between what I say
and what I mean,
something is shifting —
slow, invisible —
a kind of emotional healing
that feels a lot like being
lost and guided at the same time,
like the moon and stars
