“The Moon’s Inbox”

The Moon’s Inbox

(Each poem is a letter to the moon, telling secrets never shared with humans.)

The first message to the moon was not written with ink, but with breath on a fogged window.

It was a cold night in December when I began sending letters to the sky. I didn’t mean for it to become a ritual; it started as a whisper — a secret too heavy to tell anyone else. I had been keeping things inside, letting them rot like forgotten fruit in the corners of my heart. So, when words finally escaped, they floated upward.

“Dear Moon,” I said aloud, my voice trembling into the wind,

“I don’t know if you listen, but I need you to know I’m still trying.”

The clouds shifted slightly, and for a moment, I could swear she blinked. That’s how it began — The Moon’s Inbox.

Letter One: The Lost One

Dear Moon,

Do you ever get tired of watching us fail?

Tonight, I saw a man leave without saying goodbye.

His silence filled the room faster than his absence.

I wanted to run after him, but pride glued my feet to the floor.

You saw it, didn’t you? You always do.

You watch the unspoken wars,

the slow crumbling of hearts too polite to shatter loudly.

If you could, would you tell him that I’m still awake,

that forgiveness is sitting beside me, wide-eyed and shivering?

Yours in pieces,

— L.

The next morning, I found a faint white glow across my desk, shaped like a fingerprint. Maybe it was the moonlight sneaking in through the window. Maybe it was something else. I pressed my palm against it, and for a second, I thought I felt warmth.

I smiled. The Moon had received my message.

Letter Two: To the One Who Stayed

Dear Moon,

Tonight, I’m not sad. Don’t worry.

I walked home beneath your halo,

and for the first time, I didn’t feel like a ghost.

I saw an old couple on a park bench.

They weren’t speaking — just existing, together.

It was quiet, but not empty.

Is that what love looks like when it’s done rushing?

If you see them again from above,

tell them thank you —

for proving that stillness doesn’t always mean loneliness.

With a steadier heart,

— L.

Days turned into weeks. Each night, I wrote another secret.

Not all of them were sad. Some were small confessions —

that I missed my childhood cat, that I still hummed lullabies my mother used to sing, that sometimes I practiced smiles in the mirror just to see if they looked real.

The Moon never replied, of course. But her silence was softer than most people’s answers.

Letter Three: Confession at 2:47 A.M.

Dear Moon,

I lied to my best friend today.

She asked if I was okay, and I said yes.

But you know the truth, don’t you?

You saw me trace the outline of my loneliness on the bedsheet,

you watched the tears I pretended not to cry.

I wonder if that’s why you hide half your face sometimes —

so no one can see you breaking either.

Yours in honesty,

— L.

One night, the power went out. The whole town was drenched in darkness, except for her — the moon — glowing like a confession I couldn’t take back.

It felt like she had turned her inbox into a beacon, reminding me that even silence could listen.

So, I wrote again.

Letter Four: For the Forgotten

Dear Moon,

I don’t know where she went — the version of me who used to laugh without thinking first.

If you find her wandering between the stars, could you tell her it’s safe to come home?

Tell her the world hasn’t grown kinder, but I have.

Tell her I still remember how to dream,

even if I’ve learned to do it quietly.

Yours, searching,

— L.

That was the night I fell asleep with the curtains open. When I woke up, the moon was gone, but the dawn looked almost like an answer — soft, golden, and forgiving.

Letter Five: The One I Almost Didn’t Send

Dear Moon,

This might be my last letter.

Not because I’ve run out of secrets,

but because I’ve started sharing them with people again.

I think that’s what you wanted all along —

to teach me that light belongs to those who dare to reflect it.

You were never my confessor.

You were my mirror.

And maybe that’s all we ever needed —

someone who stays quiet long enough

for us to hear our own hearts.

Thank you for keeping my words safe in your sky.

Until the next tide,

— L.

When the final letter was folded and left on the windowsill, I didn’t look up to say goodbye.

I didn’t need to.

The moon had already read it.

I could tell — because somewhere deep inside me,

I felt the inbox empty.

And for the first time,

that didn’t feel like loss.

It felt like peace.