The Night We Stole the Moonlight

That night

we stole the moon from the sky past midnight,

past the noise

into a pocket of silence under the streetlight.

He peeled back the city’s noise

and laid down fragile memories.

Recalling moments that rattled of regrets,

fears that trembled in the hollow of his chest,

aches he had buried behind his sweet eyes and easy smile.

I heard the tremble in his voice,

saw his shoulders uncoil,

eyes flood with moonlight

spilling through a cracked window of his soul.

My heart unclenched.

I wanted to cradle every confession,

weave each broken thread into something whole.

I wanted to press my palm to his back

and tell him he was safe here.

He paused with a breath suspended between what was spoken

and what he feared would drown him if he went on.

I reached.

Fingers brushed against his skin,

and he didn’t pull away.

In that silence, I felt my own heart shift.

landing softly in the space between us.

I didn’t promise to fix him,

I just promised to stay.

We held the night until dawn cracked the sky opened,

and it was at this moment I learned that love isn’t a firework.

It’s the quiet action of showing up in someone’s darkest hour

and whispering —

“I got you, just the way you are.”

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