am not always whole.

Some nights, I vanish behind my own silence—

a sliver, a whisper,

curved like the closing eye of sorrow.

The world still looks up.

Even when I offer only a shard of myself,

someone calls it beautiful.

Waxing, I gather.

Pulling light from dark like thread through fabric,

slowly sewing myself into something

resembling fullness again.

At my height, I am silver certainty,

a mirror to the sun’s long-forgotten promises.

The tides answer to me then—

oceans lifted by belief.

But I wane.

As all things do.

I shed brightness in gentle fractions,

fading not in defeat

but in grace.

I do not apologize for dimming.

There is wisdom in retreat,

in the hush of becoming less.

Each phase a truth.

Each shadow a part of the story.

I am not absence. I am rhythm.

Not lost—just turning.

And in the dark,

when you think I’ve gone,

know this:

I am still here,

just waiting for the right time

to rise again.