Goodnight Moon

Goodnight, moon.

You strange, pale bastard.

The black sky wraps around you like an old coat, and you do what you’ve always done.

You just hang there, a voyeur in the void
watching the chaos unfold down here.
The bad deals, the lonely beds, the bottles tipped to nothing.

You’re cold, I know.
No bar to lean against, no hand to hold.

Just the weight of our shadows spilling across your face.
But you don’t flinch.
You hang, still and stubborn,
teaching us fools something about light,
that it’s not about ownership,
but about throwing it back,
scattering it into crumbs for the lost to follow.

You’re a mirror,
a dirty old coin flipped by the universe
to show us both sides of the night.

You burn through the lies we tell ourselves,
until we’re just about to melt.
Not out of kindness, but because that’s your job the old enforcer of clarity.

You rise, you fall,
that unforgettable face peeking into our closets,
mocking our chaos with your rhythm,
steady as a metronome.

You don’t complain,
pulling meaning out of the dark,
a slow grind, turning night into something we can swallow.
Not sweet, not smooth
a burnt mezcal, a bad decision.
But it’ll do.

Our night is heavy, but you hold it.
You freeze the noise just long enough for us to hear ourselves think.
You decant the weight of the day, pouring off the useless crap, leaving only what we can use. Not much, but enough.

You break us under that cold silver smirk,
then bind us to what’s real.
No speeches. No apologies.
Just the leftovers when the wanting is done.

You’re not here to save us, and thank god for that.
You’re here to remind us where the light comes from.

Goodnight, moon.
You’ll be there tomorrow,
and the next day,
and the next.
Not because you care
but because that’s how the damn thing works.
And maybe that’s enough.