Y.S.T.

I look to the moon as I walk. She hangs high and scared, like an old, white-haired woman teetering up to her attic to find her worn and mothballed wedding dress. With each step I take, the moon grows smaller and smaller until it drowns in the black pool. The woman slowly walks up to the dark and dusty armoir, and with a brittle yank, the over-sized doors creak open for a hollow embrace. It smells of ash and rose hips. She sees the pearly white dress; her wrinkled hands float lightly over the silk and caress the smooth beads. And then, she unbuttons her own dress and lets it fall quietly to the floor like loose feathers. She climbs into her gown once more, and closes the doors, never to be seen again.

As the moon dims and I cannot discern my own shrinking shadow any longer, I realized something: maybe the moon isn't shy and maybe we aren't all fated to fade; maybe we just put on a prettier dress.