In a matter of months, it will be February again. I always fall into the habit of never continuing my yearly planner, blank pages starting from April, when the list of assignments and requirements in June gets longer, or just as the semester comes to a close in September.
I always believed in the phases of the moon, their little indications next to the date on a big paper calendar, along with the times when the sun would rise and set everyday, and when the waves will leave a blank creased seashore or engulf its whiteness until the seawall. I think it’s unfair for the moon.
Maybe that’s the reason why it never appears full for us every night. I believe the moon knows how sad the city is during cloudless nights. When the first rain in May arrives on a later day, or nothing else glows but the Christmas lights of establishments in December, the heat not as warm as an embrace.
However, every day was called a day, every day. The moon tries to outshine the freckles on its face, just to make itself admirable. But the city sleeps, and the city always cared for a sunrise or a sunset view in their windows. They only care about finding the moon when someone’s walking on a chilling November evening, tears as salty as the lake that never reflects a broken-hearted man’s face.
It gets thinner and thinner, like a fruit getting consumed. Thinner and thinner, until there is only this rind with its acidic color. The city will never be able to find it right away, for the busy lights and sounds keep their eyes and ears on the ground. When people stare at the sky, they only see the electric wires, skyscrapers, airplanes, and not a bright moon. I forgot how the moon looked like during July. I forgot.
I made my own lunar calendar. By October, I changed the days of my previous year’s planner with the days of this year’s and drew the moon’s shape until I couldn’t draw anything anymore. For the next month, I can’t draw a whole cycle again. I lost count, lost pages, lost days in leap years. I lost the planner. The planners change, the plans change. I forgot.
That’s when the moon tried to hide behind all kinds of clouds, from typhoon nimbus in August to the silky cirrus in March. The moon let the city suffer, let the city open its wounds and filthy canals, let the city find a place to shed its rainwater tears. Every thing is dying while the sun wasn’t around.
When I think about you, I remember how good the moon is. I remember its purity to love everyone. For instance, I gave you white roses, white chocolates. I gave in with they way I never made these sentences cut into lines of poetry. I gave in that January night to tell my friends honestly that I have been thinking about you for months.
I knew how terrified I was loving you on a cold and windy February evening, when I almost drowned. I can see the pure whiteness of the sea foam and my breath bubbling right in front of my face. The full moon was too close, almost kissing the sea. The calendar says that by midnight, the waves will engulf the whiteness of seashore until the seawall.
In a matter of months, it will be February again.