Sometimes I feel like I am about to shatter into crippled jade, remnants documenting the unexplained theory of the indestructible that self-destructed, all in the name of love. These fingertips have told stories of legendary love, gracing its capacity to rattle even the darkest hearts but there are nights where the cold embraces me in foreign languages, clawing its intentions onto my skin. They whisper emptiness along these silhouettes of our shadows that hide when the moon is out. They’re just shy, I thought. But eventually I would learn the truth, that the sun, though harsh in heat, welcome our flaws differently than the moon does. Under the radiance of light, we cannot hide but it’s when it’s out, that our shadows reappear; like the darkness that just follows. And I feel like, maybe I relate the most to these tailgating ghosts, hovering over in silence. When the stars shine the brightest and when the sun rests on the other side, my heart awaits to be awoken. I have all this love in me, electrocuting the hollow spaces in the attempts to connect; yet there is no collector, not even a lone soul to reap all that I can give. There is a song I sometimes hear, like a silent hymm of the moon that tells me that it’s alright, child. We hear you and we love you back.