Moonbone Lullaby ✨

Tonight I untangle my hair
and let the night comb through the knots —
stars snag on my shoulders,
wind kisses my throat,
and I swear the moon hums my name
like she’s always known me.

I lie awake in this small room
where silence drips from the ceiling
like candle wax on cold skin.
A guitar murmurs in the corner —
each note a pebble skipping
across the dark river of my ribs.

"You don’t see me, but I glow,"
she hums, weaving silver in my lungs.
I breathe her in:
soft ash, old secrets, the hush
between two heartbeats that dare not confess.

Under my skin, words thaw —
they puddle warm in my belly,
drip slow into the hollows of my wrists.
Outside, the branches pray
with bare hands;
inside, my bones learn the hymn
of letting go.

I am moonbone,
I am driftwood,
I am paper and breath and the hush
after a storm’s final sigh.
I am all the words I never wrote
set free on the river’s back tonight.

"What the moon does is keep you dreaming."
I close my eyes —
she stitches her hymn behind my eyelids:
rest, wanderer.
Your shadows are softer than you think.
Your heart is a lighthouse
no ocean can drown.

Tomorrow will come —
rough and golden and hungry —
but tonight,
I float, I hum, I glow.
I am forgiven
in the language of stars.
I am safe
where the moon sings me whole.

by Onnaya