Me, Her, and The Moon Sheer Figman
“Look at the moon,” I said to her softly, while we sat at that park bench. (I could tell that night was different.) With her legs over mine and our shadows flickering in the streetlight, it was only the three of us in that moment – Me, Her, and The Moon. “Look at the moon,” I said again. She looked at me instead. “Look at the moon,” she texted days later. I’m already in bed, cozy, under covers. I don’t want to get up. (I do it anyway.) As I look through my window, I see her. I smile.
“Look at the moon,” I thought to myself. I’ve been driving for hours, only two to go. My eyelids are heavy, my coffee cold, and I’m singing along to the songs of last summer. I could drive to her house, you know, but I won’t. We could look at the moon, you know, but we don’t. I look at the moon. I haven’t thought about her in a while – Her or The Moon. I think to look for her, but she’s still looking at the moon.
“Look at the moon,” she called me this time, her voice soft, almost a whisper. I laugh, thinking she sometimes forgets the moon isn’t our secret. “Look at the moon,” she says like it’s a question. It was a voicemail, and it’s morning now. The moon didn’t wait for me to wake up, neither did she. “Look at the moon,” she texted me, again. It’s been months since I’ve seen her, and I don’t know how to tell her that I’m time zones away, and it’s morning. (The moon is out of sight.) I wonder why she’s awake at 3am anyway.
Spring 2021 | 17