When the Moon Rises in My Room 🌙

"You don’t see me, but I glow."

Tonight the sky is velvet and humming, stitched together by the gentle fingers of wind. The moon slips through my window like an old lover — uninvited, but I never turn her away. She brings with her a choir of quiet guitars, the echo of piano keys pressed under trembling fingertips, the hush of words too soft to be spoken before dawn.

I lay my head down, and somewhere beneath my ribs, something begins to thaw. It starts at my fingertips, where dreams have been frozen since childhood, and it spills warmth up my arms, across my collarbones, into the tender throat that so often swallows unshed words.

"You are the moon, you are the moon, you are the moon…"
A whisper against my pulse.
A secret that only sleepless hearts know.

Outside, the trees hold their breath. Somewhere in a quiet house, a guitar hums the sonata of someone long gone but never truly silent. The strings shiver with the ghosts of centuries, as if the moon herself is plucking each note. I imagine her perched on my windowsill — bare feet swinging, hair tangled with stardust, her voice a hush that tells me: “It’s alright to rest, little one. Even the tides sleep between the pull and the push.”

Tonight, every window in my chest is open.
I let the night wind touch the corners I hide from daylight.
I let soft words crawl through my veins:
"My words are paper boats drifting down your rivers.
Catch them if you can, or let them sink — they are yours to lose."

Silver drips from the ceiling. It pools around my bed, spills over my eyelids. The sound of the night is not silence — it’s the deep hum of secrets. Crickets gossip with fireflies. Shadows dance a slow waltz on my walls. Somewhere far away, a voice sings of a super blue moon and a lonely lighthouse — the kind that keeps vigil even when the ships forget to come home.

"What the moon does is keep you dreaming,
what the night does is keep you soft."
This is my lullaby tonight — a promise that no matter how cold the world becomes, the gentle parts of me do not have to die with the summer.

The night grows deeper, softer. My bones, once heavy with unsaid prayers, feel lighter. I watch my thoughts drift like snowflakes in warm air — each one melting before it touches the ground.

A piano sighs in the distance. A guitar hums like wind through cedar trees. A hush of voices rising and falling like the ocean in my chest. Hommage to the fragile things: bruised hands, half-finished poems, all my unsent letters.

"You don’t see me, but I glow."
Maybe that’s true for all of us.
Little moons stitched together by silence and song, rising and setting behind our ribs.

Tonight, I will sleep cradled by a promise stitched in silver thread:
No matter how lost, you are not alone.
The moon rises in my room, and so does my heart — quiet, patient, humming.

And when dawn cracks this dark honey open, I will gather what dreams survive and plant them in the garden of tomorrow.
Softly, softly — everything rises again.

by Onnaya