🌜Moon Child🌛

The moonlight shines aquamarine through the swaying trees. Twilight comes to life, with howls and white eyes dominating the night. I wait by myself.

Crickets take the spotlight. The conductor is decked out in a cobalt top hat, tiny tap shoes, and a burgundy umbrella. Jiminy is always ready to dance in the rain, sing songs, and all that jazz — a nighttime rave beats becoming lizard prey any day. I sit alone and wait.

Firefly neon lights keep time, much like stories passed around a campfire’s blaze or told on the banks of a river as they travel through plains, plateaus, and winding roads. Luminous seconds pass. The gentle breeze caresses my hair, and for a brief moment, I feel as if I’m not alone. I’ve become one with the night. My spirit screams.

Serenity’s song soothes me. Minutes pass, and I recall Jiminy Cricket dancing in time. My watch’s hands tick, taunt, and tease. Passion cries out for expression. As I wait alone, anxiety consumes me.

The cricket orchestra insists on singing with us — straight from the script of my own Disney film. Fantasy is preferable to the tick-tock in my head or the thump of my chest. Our messed-up melody clashes with the bright lights of the fireflies.

Thump — chirp — knock
Thump — chirp — knock

Rustle, rustle.

It’s not in the song. I aim my flashlight at the tree line. Is it my turn to look? To see if he’s the one. The gorgeous man I’ve been expecting does not appear. My light discovers the beauty of the night —

A single red rose means more in a meadow,
Triumph over resilient weeds speak to me,
Shadows of thorns dance below the fireflies’ glow,
And I’m still alone.

Moonlight caresses my cheek and calms me.

Thump-chirp-knock.
Thump-chirp-knock.

We’ve rediscovered our groove. Myself and midnight, a pair of thieves, have a good thing going.

I’m too old to be pursuing adolescent fantasies. My heart convinces me — it’s stronger than it was during the days of limitless possibility.

I need to photograph this moment. I shine a light on my journal. Of course, my pen is nearly dry, and I didn’t pack a spare. I should have brought a candle to provide a romantic touch. I write and wait alone, with sweaty palms and butterfly pages.

There will be no need for a second crescendo because the moment of truth will be poetic enough. Jiminy and company remain silent, as if they’re reading over my shoulder — insert dramatic pause in the screenplay for effect — and restart chirps to keep the forest’s mistress company.

The first raindrop falls on the page. My pen is out of ink, so I write with sharp indents. It’s a good thing I didn’t scribble his name because it would’ve bled out sooner. Doodles would indicate that I’m in too deep – my heart can’t be saved. I am desperate for fantasy.

Thump — chirp — knock
Thump — chirp — knock

Rustle, rustle.

My dark prince has finally arrived. My heart and thoughts have been reduced to the size of a teen as he wades through the weeds.

A single red rose picked from a meadow means more,
Belief in true love outshined the cynic in me,
Shadows of thorns dance, but it’s a beautiful thing,
Let’s see what the moment of truth brings —

Silence.

The crickets are also perched on the edge of their small chairs.

“Hola, Luna.”

“Hola, mi amor.”

He kisses my cheek as he hands me the rose.

Gloomy clouds avert their gaze. My heart’s tempo changes in an instant.

Thumpty, thump-chirp
Thumpty, thump, thump-chirp

A midnight meadow music serenades two lovers who searched through weeds and thorns, endured rain and storms, and eventually discovered paradise.

That’s all there is to it. We were intended to be together.