I spat on the moon to shine her. She told me thank you.
It was the closest thing to affection she ever had.
I curled in her crater afterward and vented out
my earth burdens.
I shared with her the story of how my human heart
broke, my pain weighed her down like a pregnancy,
but as a surrogate mother would she decided
to continue carrying me.
So I regrew my umbilical cord, attached it to her smile,
and nourished myself off her moonlight glow. Nine months
it was her, the stars, and me. She questioned what would she do
when it was my time to go?
While I regenerated the broken parts of me with her love,
she glanced at Earth with envy, cursing at it quietly, but only
when I wasn’t kicking her with my agony. It was so unfair
I would die on Earth and she would never have me again.
Despite the care she has given. She wouldn’t be able to see me
fall in love, for good this time, with a man who adored the Moon
first, before he learned to love the Sun.
Attachment, what she couldn’t afford, just happened. It was the night
when she glanced at my fragile flesh, noticed the vulnerability
I carried for being human, and she engorged red with empathy.
I had become her moon child.
On my last month with her she couldn’t take it anymore.
She shook soft sadness and developed phases of withdrawal:
becoming Dark Moon, Waxing Crescent, Half Moon
incomplete pieces of herself.
I woke up. It was my last day with her. She cut my umbilical
cord herself. Her energy had healed me completely. I jumped
off her gravitational pull, told her thank you, and said my good bye
as I floated back to Earth.
Now before bed I speak to her through frequencies. She listens,
plays my transmissions over and over, becoming the envy
of the galaxy as space hears my broadcasting
dedicated only for her:
Thank you for everything. I will always be your moon child.
As you will always be my moon mother. Would you kindly
heal my children if they ever visit you? The same way
you healed me in ways Earth never could.