Scars in Silver

Dear Moon,

You have followed me longer than my own shadow.

I write to you tonight not as a poet,

but as someone who has run out of places to confess.

You are older than every wound,

yet you wear them openly —

your scars carved into silver,

your face turned again and again

to remind us that imperfection can shine.

Do you remember

when I first whispered into your light?

It was the summer I thought love would last forever,

and the winter I learned it wouldn’t.

Both nights, you were there,

the same coin flipped to show

that joy and grief come from the same sky.

I envy your patience.

While we build and ruin and forget,

you simply remain —

changing without apology,

waning without shame,

returning without excuse.

So here is my small request:

keep watching.

When I lose my way,

be the lantern above fields and rivers.

When I fall quiet,

translate my silence into tides.

When I am gone,

hold the memory of my name

in your cold, eternal mouth of light.

And if anyone asks about me,

tell them not what I did,

but how often I looked up —

and waited for your reply.

Yours,

always,

the one who keeps writing upward.