I blame the moon. It’s 3am and here I am, staring at the shadowed ceiling from my pillow. She beckons and woos me, drawing on my blood and skin to come outside and bask in her light, dance under her mysterious blue reflection. She plays peekaboo with the sun, always pointing back to him, always boasting her love. She can’t help herself and wants me to know her fascination, her singleness of focus, and she calls me relentlessly when I should instead be sleeping. But I can’t help myself. I hear her and I know her midnight song, her ache, this longing to be near him, caught instead on this cycle of a little closer, a little further away, but never quite there with him. Still, she spins around in Earth’s gravity, worshipping him.
I blame the moon. Her surge moves from my toes, through my middle and out the top of my head. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally getting over being sick for weeks, or that this is just the normal Saturday night insomnia striking again, but I think not – this is no typical bout with sleeplessness. The moon is playing with me. I hear her, she’s in the room giggling a tinkling silver laugh, reveling at how impossible she is making it for those of us under her spell to quiet and dream.
To quiet and dream.
I blame the moon, and I thank her, as well for begging me to remember the ache and swell – to long, to sleep, to love, to dwell… To dwell and not forsake wonder, to escape my bed and dance enraptured.
Yes. I blame the moon. But I think she can take it. I’m pretty sure she’s happy she at last has my attention.