Moonlight is nostalgia dressed in silver.
It borrows warmth from a distance
and turns it into something soft enough to touch.
The moon does not shine,
it remembers.
It carries daylight’s ghosts,
folds them into dreams,
and spills them on our faces
when we cannot bear the truth of morning.
Every phase is a kind of forgiveness.
Every shadow, an admission
that even light must rest.
Look closely,
you will see the sun’s handwriting
on every crater,
letters addressed to night
from a love that refused to die.
And maybe that is what we are too,
reflected light,
remembering warmth
long after it is gone.
