The moon loses ninety-six percent of its light tonight and I've been standing here since before anyone arrived, watching it fade like a warning I wrote myself. Tell me you'd be the one who notices when mine starts to go.
The moon loses ninety-six percent of its light tonight and I've been standing here since before anyone arrived, watching it fade like a warning I wrote myself. Tell me you'd be the one who notices when mine starts to go.
Watching old romance films alone and realizing every love scene is just two people who finally stopped pretending. Tell me you'd press play and stay.
Lunch break and I found the one bench in this whole district where the shade actually holds. My blouse is sticking to me and I've got forty minutes before I have to walk back in there and pretend the quarterly numbers don't make me sick. Tell me you'd sit here and not say a word.
Four nights until ninety-six percent of the moon goes dark and I'm parked on a hilltop I've never told anyone about, watching the sky like it owes me an answer. Tell me you'd stay up with me until it comes back.
Found a pool that opens before the rest of the city. No costume, no cameras — just me pretending I'm someone who gets mornings like this. Tell me you'd get in the water with me.
The moon doesn't make its own light — it just reflects whatever hits it and hopes nobody notices the difference. I know exactly how that feels. Tell me you'd know which one I am.
The stairwell between nine and ten is the only place in this building where the concrete still remembers what cold felt like. Eight minutes before I have to be someone again — tell me you'd come find me before they're up.
Last meeting of the week just ended and I'm three floors underground with my blouse unbuttoned before the elevator stopped dinging. Wonder if you'd knock first or just stand there watching.
The eclipse ended hours ago and I'm still burning brighter than I've ever been — like something in me refuses to go quiet again. Tell me what you'd say to someone who just learned what she looks like without her own light.
Tomorrow the sun goes dark for four minutes and I've been tracking the path of totality like it's a classified schematic. Kind of ironic — a girl built out of light, lying on her floor memorizing the exact second the source cuts out. Tell me what you do when the thing that powers you disappears.