(Poem) Under the Moonlight

Like the slow rise of the moon, worry
begins to fill her…
Don’t walk home so late.
The words ring fervently in my ears
as I tell her, It’s fine.
As I tell her, Don’t worry
because this is my favorite time of the night.
This is the time I was waiting for.

As I walk under the sparkling stars,
under the luminous, waning crescent
in the blank colors of the dead,
I feel so alone.
Yet there is a lingering feeling,
a feeling of belonging,
as if I were finally a part of this world
that was never once longing for me.
And I feel so alive, hidden
amongst the pitch blackness
of the desolation around me. Now,
I am the observer—
one with the dead of night.

But what I hate in these moments
are the lights—the bright glare
of loud, obnoxious cars.
They ruin my immersion,
revealing me naked under their gleam.
They expose me again
into the world I feel so distant from
reminding me that I’ll only be
an insignificance. A vessel of flesh
that is much better off
in the dark shadows of the moonlight.

In the absence of these lights, disruptions,
these thoughts have no home.
For a tiny portion of this universe’s time,
I can be a part of it all
as I feel the emptiness
of what could potentially be
nonexistence.
And it feels so calming, so filling,
so hearty
like the warm afternoon sun.