you've been here before...
You are not arriving so much as remembering the route — the burgundy dark under your hands, the cream disk above you, trembling as if the sky itself were breathing through water.
Every horizon has folded into a circle. You look up through that small bright aperture and the moon looks back, wider than weather, quieter than glass.
You notice the light bending before you notice your own body moving; the current has been holding the sentence open for you.
They rise around you in different dialects — small, bright, imperfect spheres, each carrying a little borrowed moonlight toward a surface it may never reach.
The pull is not dramatic. It is intimate. A hand at the center of the ocean, moving everything by fractions.
Not the glow of a city, not the glow of a screen — this light has no message to deliver. It blooms because pressure asked gently, and a thousand tiny bodies answered.
Here the cream is a rumor, the burgundy has cooled into blue-black, and your thoughts arrive late, blurred at the edges, carrying sand from another century.
Crater, mare, ridge, rille — names pinned to silence, maps drawn by people who wanted the far thing to feel less alone.
The dark does not empty itself for you. It simply makes room, and after a while, you understand that room is the gift.
Before the air, before the shore, before your name — a pale widening overhead, soft as breath on a mirror.
The moon has followed you all the way down and all the way back, not as a destination, but as a companion whose face changes whenever you do.