I Write Because the Moon Knows My Name

 I have loved the moon long before I learned how to explain love.

Before grammar. Before poetry. Before I knew that longing could be turned into lines.

The moon never demanded attention she simply arrived. Quiet. Certain. Ancient.
While the world chased the sun for proof and productivity, I waited for the moon, who taught me a deeper truth: not everything that matters needs to be loud.

My love for the moon is not aesthetic. It is ancestral.

She reminds me of how our elders lived slow evenings, stories told under dim light, silences that were not awkward but sacred. The moon holds that old-world dignity. She waxes and wanes without apology. She teaches me that disappearance is not failure, and fullness is not permanence. This, I believe strongly, is wisdom our fast lives have forgotten.

And poetry poetry is how I speak back to her.

I do not force the moon into my poems. I invite her.
She slips in naturally
as a witness to my solitude,
as a mirror to my changing moods,
as a soft rebellion against a world obsessed with brightness.

When my heart feels heavy, the moon becomes a metaphor.
When my thoughts overflow, she becomes punctuation.
When I cannot say someone’s name, I let moonlight say it for me.

I write her not as an object in the sky, but as a presence 
a confidant who listens without interrupting,
a constant that changes,
a light that does not burn.

There is something radical about choosing the moon in poetry.
It is choosing reflection over attention, rhythm over noise, depth over display.
It is choosing to feel instead of perform.

My poems are often quiet. Some people mistake that for weakness. I don’t.
The moon has survived centuries without shouting. So will I.

When I write, I let my lines breathe like moon phases 
some verses full,
some deliberately hollow,
some fading so that something truer can return.

This is how the moon enters my poetry
not as decoration,
but as discipline.
Not as romance alone,
but as reminder.

That it is okay to glow softly.
That distance can still mean devotion.
That even borrowed light can change the tide.

And so I keep writing
under her watchful calm,
learning, line by line,
how to be gentle without being small.