In ancient times the moon was a woman; goddess of the hunt and wild animals. She displayed gentleness and steadfastness.
I, on the other hand, knew the moon was a man. A youthful crisis found me meeting him. He was lying on his back like a drunk beetle waving his legs in the air – trying to right himself.
The moon ate the dark, kept me company and lit my way. We did not need to speak – we knew all that was needed to understand each other. He knew that I was driven out of my home by loneliness and a desperate need not to be myself. I knew he was grateful for my company in his bloated state.
Since then the moon has been a friend. Constant certainly – going away but always coming back. Gentle unless he needed to be otherwise. This night he was engorged with…
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