THE SIZE OF THE MOON

The moon is about the length of that specific pinegrove song and the width of an average thumb and it supposedly looks the same wherever you are in the world, but I don’t think so. I think the moon is bigger when you’re feeling tiny on an airplane and when the sky is clear and your friend is buzzed on margaritas screaming her favorite song out of the window. It’s smaller when you look out of the window of the best bedroom you’ve ever had for the last time and realize you should have spent more nights sitting on top of your roof. The moon is the size of the patched up hole that used to take up a decent amount of your heart, once it finally starts filling up again, and the size of the pit in your stomach when you have to hold your breath and do something that scares you. It’s not always white and circular and crater filled, sometimes it’s blueish and creeps up before the sun’s ready to go and there’s no black yet and it looks the way it feels when everything is happening at once and you don’t know where to look or what to do with your hands. Other times it sticks around for too long in the morning and nobody knows why and it feels the same way as not being sure when to leave a place without over staying your welcome, or how long to let a person stick around before it starts to mean too much. Supposedly you can’t hear the moon, it’s lifeless and silent, but that’s complete bullshit to me. I think it sounds like all the things we scream about when nobody is around and like all the wishes people whisper to stars and everyone yelling at once when you take a wrong turn late at night around your hometown and when the yells turn to sleepy sighs and laughs. It sounds like dark red wine being poured into a glass with a playlist you forgot all about buzzing in the background. It sounds the way love feels for the first time in a while and when a Brand New song comes on the radio in the middle of an empty parking lot.  I don’t think the moon smells chalky or like the giant rock that it is. I bet it smells more like the cologne the boy who isn’t your boyfriend keeps in his car and like candles right after you blow them out and like rain from a half open window in the middle of the night when everyone wakes up at once but doesn’t say anything. To me it smells like your freshly cleaned car on the highway when your windows are cracked, and it’s not quite summer and you don’t quite know where any of this is going. It smells like spring no matter what season it is and like dewy grass even if you’re surrounded by pavement and it didn’t rain that day. The moon tastes nothing like astronaut ice cream or metal or whatever science says. It tastes like cotton candy and bubble gum kisses and like something you know you’ll crave in the morning but will never be the same again as it is right now. The moon tastes like your strawberry chapstick when your nerves nibble on your lip or you think about the look in his eyes. It’s sugary and dark at the same time, like heaven and dreams and expensive French wine. The moon doesn’t always feel so far away and feels more like knowing everything is going to be fine. It feels like, more likely than not, nothing matters at all but like you should do big things anyways. It doesn’t feel relatively close compared to the other floating rocks out there. It feels so present and real that its like being pinched or like a sting of fresh air or somersaults in your stomach solely induced by a smile. When it’s too cloudy to catch, it feels like missing someone you never thought you’d have to miss and like life as you know it is over, but will sill resume in the morning nonetheless.

The moon could smell like popcorn to you, like apple shampoo to him, sound like an accordion to your grandmother, and to your best friend, feel like prom. It’s insane because it’s different for you than any of this, but it’s all because of the same big shining whole or half circle in the sky. It’s incredible and spectacular and all those big words that will never do it justice and mostly because you have a completely different set of shorter more simple words you’d choose to describe it all…The size of the moon is the size of some peoples eyes and dreams and for sure the size of my heart. I said this as a joke but I think I mean it, that I won’t settle for anyone (like for good) who doesn’t love me how I love the moon, running out of words and describing the feelings as specific but intangible things and not being able to shut up and sit down about me. I want someone to laugh and cry and get excited, all flustered and rambling and jumpy and filling daydreams and pages of words about something that is supposed to be mundane and expected and around every night. I think we should look for love like we look for the moon every night, noticing it at just the right time, right when we miss it or need it or just want to know it’s still there. We should love people like our nightly miraculous moon, and ask nothing more for them but to keep on existing.

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