If the moon could text me, I think she’d start with a glow,
A silent notification to the world down below.
It would flash across my screen, around two-fifteen,
The most radiant message that I have ever seen.
It might just be a single, glowing eye emoji,
Or maybe a quick check-in: “u awake? it's lonely.”
Then perhaps a complaint, keyed in lowercase and light,
“srry to vent, but the sun was extra loud today, right?”
I’d imagine photos of the earth from where she spins,
Caption: “view from the office. looks like rain begins.”
She’d drop me satellite memes, orbiting through the void,
Joking about the meteors that leave her so annoyed.
We’d gossip about the planets, the drama of the spheres,
“saturn’s flexing his rings again, same as previous years.”
She’d tell me how the stars are always whispering so loud,
And how she hides her face behind a passing, heavy cloud.
Then a serious text, with a rhythm meant to soothe,
“even when I change my shape, my orbit is always smooth.
I know your world is heavy, and gravity pulls you down,
but from up here, your little life is brightening the town.”
She'd remind me that the tides are her pulling on the blue,
A giant, liquid message that she’s sending down to you.
“don't stress the small stuff,” she'd write in silver font,
“the universe will give you all the quiet that you want.”
If I forgot to reply, I’d see her typing bubble start,
Blinking with the steady pulse of a quiet, cosmic heart.
She wouldn't double-text, she's got a billion years of grace,
Just a patient, silver presence hanging out in outer space.
Before finally leaving a small read receipt upon the sea,
The absolute best reminder that she’s watching over me.