The Boy Who Watched Me Weep Under The Moon

The night was hot, as the rest have been, the boy and I perched on a lifeguard tower, like we'd won the city we’re in. We talk and we laugh and my worries fade away, until the ocean breeze spins my hair in a knot, the marking of a very bad day. There's a sickness in my body, one he cannot see, but he watches as I untangle my mane, clump after clump I am forced to set free. They fly far away into the midsummer air, spreading round the world like ashes, but I am still here. My heart tightrope walks a paper thin cable. Meanwhile the boy, unafraid of my weakness, holds very stable. A view of the ocean sits before our eyes and I search and I wonder why the moon appears in disguise. So I weep and I weep under a sky with no moon, “a bad omen” I say, the wind whistles a haunting tune. The boy is quiet, and no words does he need, for his presence is a miracle, and my tears slow their bead. I look at the boy, city lights round his face and think how lucky I am to find myself in this case. His warmth melts my sorrow and better I do feel, so I turn to face the ocean, last looks of this moon-less sky to steal. What I turn to find takes my breath right away, a fiery red moon peels above the horizon and is here to stay. It’s red and it’s hot and I'm confused by its presence. Is a sky with no moon or one that is red a worse sentence? What poise I had mustered is all torn away, more do I weep but the boy has something to say: 

He says he heard someone say calling the moon ‘beautiful’ is a subtle way of saying ‘I love you.’ I take this in, I think it's funny and cute. I think back to all the times he has called the moon beautiful and wonder if this was his intended pursuit. When I tell you that tonight, there was magic in the air, it's as if the universe was sending a dare. For The next time I looked over the crystle black water, the moon had risen high in the sky, shining all white and holy like a bride at the altar. She beamed and she shone and she mocked from above. She played a silly little game, hiding, then red, then high in the sky, I had had quite enough. 

So to the boy who says this funny thing about the moon; if what you said is true, I’m not sure what our night meant. For the moon went from none, to red, to high in the sky, a distinct pattern so dashing it suits this memory in a bow and a tie. She shines over the ocean, unafraid of her looks, it's the most beautiful moon I’ve ever seen, a messily scrapbooked page, one I will keep safe in my book. The beauty of tonight's moon brought tears to my eyes, in here lies a unnecessary metaphor because I love you, I do not deny. 

You see me for all of my beauty, and then some more, the version of me you behold, more effort to become I pour. For she’s not ~far~ prettier, nor funnier, nor clever, nor smart. But just an extra bit of all of these things makes her a girl with a golden heart. You make me believe inside me she lives and when I’m with you she shines fearing no dim. 

So although you may feel like you have a patchwork heart, what I see is much different, the embodiment of the antonym of tart. With my heart you have set a standard of care, it’s not a version of you I imagine, but rather what’s tangibly there. A boy with a soft way and kind eyes and a care beyond measure, someone who knows how to take a heart and with it be gentle. 

Our story is one marked a bit complicated. But I believe a story is perfect when love is not compromised nor traded. And no compromises have been made and no trades have been done. And while it may sting at first, it’s okay if the beauty of the moon is one day outshone by the sun. So although I’m not sure what the future does hold, it doesn’t matter to me. For to weep under the moon with someone you love is nothing short of a miracle. So when I look back at this summer, and maybe feel sick with heartache, it was bred by intoxication with the present, a dent in my necklace of life I will call beautiful. Adding a twist to the saying, I will be sad that it is over, and I will also smile, for what we had I think is as rare as a four leaf clover. 

I write this at dawn when the moon swaps for the sun, and more tears meet my eyes because summer is done. I tell myself the word weep is even prettier in the past tense than the present. I can only hope our story shares the same essence. For in this present right now I feel quite sad, but lucky I feel much more than I do bad. For I weep and I’ve wept with a boy under the moon. And now each night I look at her, she symbolizes a boon. So to the boy who watched me weep under the moon, who makes me write choppy childish poetry and see my hair as nothing more than silly little strings, if there’s one thing to hold, or something I want you to know; if the whole world is shaking and nothing feels right, know that wherever I am, no matter how far, I will never fail to see the beauty of the moon and all of its light. 

XO,

M