Sleep, Dear Traveler
Lily Acevedo
What is the moon if not an eye that never sleeps? It watches you, dear traveler, sees your lantern on a stick. It’s such a lovely glow, one that turns ocean froth into dim and dirty tangerines. Within its light you see the place to which you know you’ll go; it’s dark and deep and lonely still, too close to what you know.
Dear traveler, why does your face contort with such contempt? I suppose the music in each star’s laugh is one made at your expense. One song they sing is from cabaret; another song haunts your trodden way. Each song is soft and cruel, but youthful still, best heard when you’re alone. The stars, they cast their pretty faces on the glass-cased waves below. Dear traveler, don’t you see their pride’s a dancing candle flame? It sways and falters with each stolen bar, but if you stay your lantern and listen close, you’ll hear the mirror doesn’t sing. Only the stars that swim will whisper truths, words only heard when you’re alone.
Your wife left you, didn’t she—though we both know why. You’d forgotten how to make her laugh, you couldn’t even make her cry. She took you by the hand and led you through each crowded, busy year. Each winter’s kiss upon your nose and sip of coffee that burned your tongue were all moments, were all gifts, all of which were from her. She placed each gift into a box, and kept them safe within your chest. Cherished, there they perished, as you couldn’t stand the pain. Do you remember, dear traveler, how she smiled into the flames? Do you remember what she told you? Do you know why memories never fade?
You left your wife, didn’t you—though neither of us know why. She was there with every laugh you lived, she was there every time you cried. She got you out of bed this morning, and put worn sandals on your feet. Tell me, traveler, after all your years, can you recall her name? I’ll spare two hints: the first, a memory of the ribbons strewn through her hair; as for the second, you spell it with an H.
You’ve abandoned Hope and muted the laughter far above. But I know, dear traveler, that you’ve heard the whispered secrets cradled in the sea. They told you all you’d need lies within their heart. They do not sing, nor do they laugh at your expense; they waver with the wind. While your toes flirt with frozen promise, please lift your chin up to the sky. You’ll see the moon is always watching. It can never look away. Have you considered, dear traveler, that what lights the night might be its pain? The stars don't speak, but they may just be the tears the poor moon cries. They might dance. Their fall may chime. But by the end, they’re cold and lonely still, fine sculpted slabs of stone. Consider, perhaps, that the moon is alone, surrounded only by its grief. If that’s the case, then tell me, traveler, what makes the laughter that you hear?
Dear traveler, did you find the answers for which you sought? Did you find them, hidden away, below the frozen mirror in which you lept?
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I suppose now, you cannot answer me.
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I suppose now, I’ll let you rest.
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