It’s cute when we send each other pictures of the night sky, even though everyone knows they never turn out.
It’s cute when we waste evenings talking about lunar magic,
but let me get it out of the way and say:
you’re not the moon.
You’re the endless indigo everything holding up the milky way.
You’re the place where the moon feels safe enough to fall asleep
in the strangest cities, in unfamiliar neighbourhoods,
in the middle of nowhere,
after she’s had too much to drink.
You’re not the moon, no.
You’re the intoxicating infinity wrapping around like a blanket,
turning her mess of stars into a constellatory rest.
Those once-in-a-century full moons are nice,
but let me get it out of the way and say:
you’re the kind of inescapable darkness worth returning to every night —
inevitable and
painfully instinctive.
