The moon

I sat looking at the moon,

waiting for the wind

to touch my hair

the way you used to.

Then my little cousin asked

what happened to you.

She’s too young to understand

breakups and heartbreak;

maybe she saw it in my eyes.

I didn’t know what to say

except,

“You’re on the moon.”

I wanted to say

you are the moon.

I wanted to tell her

I talk to the moon

the way I used to talk to you.

I wanted to tell her

the moon isn’t as beautiful as you.

I wanted to tell her

that even when the moon changes shape,

even when it disappears from the sky,

I’ll keep looking for it,

and loving it.

It sounds childish,

but she believes it—

just like I do.