Moonlight is a lie you want to believe.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too still.
It spills like glass over graves and gutters,
whispers like someone you thought was dead.

It doesn’t warm. It watches.
Knows your name but won’t say it.
Makes the night beautiful in the way a knife is—
precise, cold, intimate.

You stand in it
because something in you wants to be seen
by whatever haunts the sky.