Moonwater
Love is moon: liquid, laughing, and waiting.
Years kneeling at the shore,
haunted by reflection.
Sharp‑tongued regret gnawing
its own bones.
I imagined silver, salvation…
imagined too much, perhaps.
Afraid to reach,
to disturb the surface…
scared it would vanish.
When I finally cupped it,
it held.
The surface shivered,
softened,
constant through dark.
Always there,
waiting.
Still I linger,
sleeves wet.
Why did I wait
to know the depth?
I tell myself I only needed courage…
a soft place, a held breath…
but I had never learned
the grammar of steady hands.
Love is moon:
bright, patient,
beautiful when I dared reach.
When I stretched,
trusted…
it waited, liquid, laughing.
Not gone.
Only unseen.
I touched it.
The truth was never fragile.
Yet I mourn the years,
the silver left unclaimed
out of fear.
— UpsilonA
