The Moon Doesn't Owe the Sun an Explanation

She rises when the world sleeps, cloaked in silver silence, a keeper of secrets the sun could never bear. She doesn’t chase light — she reflects it, bends it, wears it like a quiet crown. And still, they ask her why she’s never as bright, never as loud, never as warm. But the moon owes no apology for glowing in shadows, for ruling tides instead of time. She knows the power in soft things— in phases, in patience, in pulling oceans with a glance. Let the sun boast. Let him blaze and blind. She’ll keep orbiting in her sacred rhythm, turning dark into beauty, absence into presence. Not lesser—just different. Not silent—just still. The moon doesn't owe the sun an explanation. She is enough, even in pieces.