Dear Moon,

I love you.
I’ve died so many times yet I love you, I still love you. I die everyday because I can’t reach you; and you, being merely a moon, do not seem able to
offer a hand. I can give you imaginary hands whenever I like, but I don’t like anymore of imaginations. My brain has given up on me, I was just fooling myself. Our love, as an idiom puts it, is a cry for the moon. You can see, the deaths I talk about are merely hyperboles; the bittersweet me, an oxymoron; and you, being the moon, an overused personification.

Poetry becomes me; I see only metaphors when I look around. When I say I love you, I am not even sure whether it stands for something else. Forgive me, but sometimes I make poems I don’t understand myself. But this I understand completely, dear moon: I am bidding you farewell.

You became my moon because you cast a light so little even a candle can outshine. I understand, you are a distant thing, and my great grandmother is a more distant star in the vast galaxy. I failed to realize that you shine not just for me. I should have paid the loyalty of the little candle, who had been with me in the darkness for a long time, now she is but a melted past. And I hope you, yet to become a past, only changed a phase.

I never had you, we never had each other—but, I, love, you. I’ve died so many times just by thinking about it: how I love the moon, and why the moon cannot love me. You said you love me and I refused to believe. Oh, I did believe it, but I only felt a love of a moon. A love so quiet, so removed that if I cease to become a poet, I will never ever feel. You know already about the infirmity of the smoke, the frailty of a ghost. Things only you can decipher. There are things we shared because we knew, there are things we knew because we shared. I think I can never forget about the whirlwind romance we had for days despite all these.

Tonight, I write to you for the last time. I can imagine how sweet it is if you cry. You said it pains you losing our chance, like it leaves you another crater to the heart. Yes, it pains you finding another one in a matter of minute. Yes, it is sad. I doubt my absence ever saddens you, but then again, I doubt my own doubts.

You will remain up there, and I’ll be down right here. The sky is vast, turning a blind eye on you is almost impossible, but loving you is not less impossible anyhow. I gave you so much space, that’s how you viewed it. No. You have it before I can ever give it. And I believe you always have the freedom to hurt me just by pursuing what may please you. I love you and I only wanted more
of your light, but a certain pull has kept you away. It wasn’t the gravity, it
was the opportunity. And now that the opportunity has flown away, I say goodbye. I won’t urge myself to continue and give it a fight. You didn’t wait, you didn’t fight. That’s how sad you can get. Spare me of the crocodile tears,
please. Don’t give me sadness for an excuse.

Dear moon, be happy instead.

Because from now on, I’ll stop gazing, I’ll stop weaving metaphors for your beauty. I’ll stop calling you moon and any other fictitious names like sugarfree. I’ll stop cracking hackneyed jokes. I’ll stop broadcasting you over blogs. I’ll stop stealing from your precious time. I’ll stop phoning you, you won’t hear my high-pitched voice again. I’ll stop contesting your ideas and laughing over your judgments. But I confess: I am actually weeping right now.

Dear moon, I thought you’ll need recuperation first before you are ready to love again. So it goes without saying that you’ve been healed. I honestly think you owe it to me that you are healed, or I am just being too confident. You made me believe we are working out well, I can wait for years if it calls for it.

You love me but I gave you enough reasons to love someone else more? I know nothing of those reasons. You provide such reasons for yourself. Your only crime is that you didn’t love me enough. My only crime is that I was too laid-back on you? Where is the love?

It hurts but I’ll be fine, I swear.

Your dear sugarfree.

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