The Moon tapped my shoulder through a thin gap in my curtains.
I was startled, because I didn’t know the moon had fingers. Or a hand. Or an arm for that matter. Or that he would want my attention so urgently, it seemed.
“Yes, The Moon?” I asked.
“I can see what you are doing just now” he replied.
I was sitting crossed legged on my floor, cutting up my life in to small slices, like you would a peach. Each slice glistening and juicy, alarming flesh colors against the pure white of an ordinary dinner plate.
“What a funny thing to do with your life” The Moon commented.
The truth is, I was sad. Sad, restless, confused and thought that if I could see each fragment clearly then perhaps I would be able to piece it all back together somehow and start anew. A fresh piece of fruit to hold in my hands.
The Moon then reached past my shoulder and stole a piece right from the plate. He ate it greedily, juice running down his wrist and arm. Yes, The Moon also has a tongue. He used it to clean the sticky mess with.
“No!” I cried to The Moon.
The Moon’s hand was reaching for more, so I hunched over the plate to protect the remains.
“It’s mine” I said, sheepishly.
“Then enjoy every single slice you foolish girl. It will do you no good just looking at it.” The Moon explained.
He was right. The Moon is always right.