Even the moon is tired of apologising.
for pulling tides too hard,
for not being whole enough on some nights.
For being too absent,
too full,
too much,
too little.
For shifting too often—
phases like moods.
for being ruled by rhythm.
for staining the sky black
now and then.
She dims herself
to be easier to love,
only to apologise
for not glowing enough.
She shines her brightest
to become the muse of a poet—
yet still, the wolves howl,
as if her light
had wandered too far into their wild.
She lowers herself each evening
just to be looked at,
then hides the parts
they say are too much.
They love the glow,
love the quiet,
never the craters.
They want beauty,
not weight.
The shimmer—
never the source.
Never the parts
that don’t shine.
She is touched,
measured,
named—
but never known.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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