The Moon

Tree branches swaying in the breeze. Cold, crisp Connecticut air. That grin I couldn’t wait to see. Your fingers in my hair.

Squeeze my eyes shut in the present; liquid acid raining down.

I tell myself, “It was never real.”

But we spent hours together in your town.

With all the trauma and secrets we shared, I wish you’d at least treated me like your friend.

That was all I truly wanted from you, in the end.

Even when you discarded me, I could see you had your own pain, born from the trauma you’d shared. I worry about you to this very day. I hope you still write, and I hope you’re okay.

You meant more to me than I could ever mean to you.

This is the part in the book or screenplay where you call me and say you want to be my friend, after all. We finally become friends. And I never have to say goodbye or wonder what became of your life.

I’m so tired of saying goodbye.

Why can’t you just be the cool, kind, writer guy?

Remember that night in my car, when I looked up at the big, bright moon, and asked if you’d noticed how beautiful it was? You were shuffling around, ready to leave, as you mumbled, “No.” Then you opened the car door, and left me there.

I cried the whole drive home, feeling empty inside.

Why couldn’t you just sit for a while, and look at the moon with me? I needed a friend, and you were my constellation in a dark sky.

But I see now that I was your high.