She is not always whole—

there are nights she disappears

behind veils of silence,

gathering herself in shadows.

At first, just a sliver of thought,

a shy smile after heartbreak.

She waxes slow—

fingertips brushing the world again,

learning the shape of light.

In fullness, she stands—

bold as truth in a mirror,

a beacon for lost sailors,

the mother of tides and longing.

But even glory must soften.

She wanes—gracefully—

shedding light like old letters,

each edge a gentle farewell.

And then—stillness.

Darkness that isn’t empty

but deep with rest.

A hush before becoming again.

She is never gone, only becoming.

The moon, like us—

a cycle of forgetting and remembering

how to shine.