Friday, December 30

the moon child.


there was once a beautiful girl named martha.

she had the curliest locks, the most delicate fingers, and the most beautiful eyes that some people say she was a child of the moon, and that when she closed her eyes, the moon's radiance died with her.

i first saw her with a beer bottle in one hand, the other clasping a marlboro lights stick. she was only 17 when i first met her, but that did not matter.

we talked about unicorns and sun tzu's the art of war, love and middle earth, psychology and nirvana. we talked about how stars can be deceiving, and how beer is the only semblance of constancy there is. we talked about how fucked up britney spears is, and how emotions can disappear without a trace.

but during nights when the darkness was especially pitch black, i would see snippets of who she was without the facade. once, when sobriety was spirited away from her body, i learned that her father is a priest. and although she tried to make it sound nonchalant, i knew that that had scathed her.

i also learned that her mother never wanted her in the first place, and until now, they still have sporadic skirmishes, because apparently, she is the personification of her mother's one great tragedy. she always chuckled after she shared these disconcerting truths, but of course, i knew better.

during these unguarded moments, i think: the moon child's eyes can also be dead, even when they are wide open. and when they die, the moon dies with them. and then the night is veiled by an intangible mist of solitude that is so disquieting, everything becomes dark and dreary.


i can still recall that beautiful october night when alcohol warped us into a parallel universe. we were beside the beach, just the two of us, mat laid out, and our stories of truth and fiction sprawled before us.

it was 11:52 when i kissed her. i have always wondered how she tasted -- not in the carnal sense, but in the more profound sense. i wanted to understand how complicated she truly was.

the first brush, the first kiss, was a moment i could not forget.

her motions were mechanical, and even when she had the most beautiful lips, i am certain that i tasted sorrow when i kissed her. her lips looked invitingly red, but they tasted like gray.

i had tasted all the men that she had kissed before, in the hopes of finding that elusive sense of belongingness. i tasted her bitterness; her submission to despair. i tasted her brokenness; her spirit that was in shambles.

i tasted her life, and our kiss made me taste the depth and breadth of her sadness.

it's been four years since that kiss happened, and still, i wonder how she is doing right now. the last thing i heard about her is that she dropped out from college and, i hope what they say is untrue, she has become prostituted in the place where she's from.

there was once a beautiful girl named martha.

and each time i look at the moon, i remember the moon child. and each time i remember the moon child, i am reminded that the moon lives and dies with her.