In the depths of my mind I harbor a hidden truth; a love for the man on the moon. This secret romance was born of innocent flirtation and turned into a lifelong romance of imagined conversations and invisible interactions. A romance of ache and distance. Of blues and greens, of raging seas, endless longings and what ifs.
I know.
It’s too bizarre.
Too unlikely.
Too distant to be real.
But if I’m being honest (which I haven’t always been able to do—not to myself and certainly not to others) I’ve kept this love buried deep inside. Not acknowledging it or understanding it fully.
All these years later I recognize that this romance is based on something absolutely real and yet is conjured on the repeating idea of what might have been. It is complicated by distance—living on two different planets tends to make being together impossible. I know that speaking two different languages complicates things too; after all, too much gets lost in translation. Although we are far apart, we are always connected by the light of the moon.
We live our own separate lives, making space in the gaps and silences. He haunts my dreams. I am an apparition in the people he meets while roaming the streets. Although there is space in my heart for him, there is nowhere for us to exist together.
His face appears during my loneliest moments and I bury myself in his embrace as I crush my face into the pillow.
Moonlight lights up our connection across the sands of time as I gaze longingly into the night sky, wondering, for the millionth time, if he’s gazing back at me.
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