Honey and Moonlight
by Âmî Jey
They say every flower once dreamed of becoming a star,
yet here we are—
the moon stuck in our throats,
petals caught between the grind of the sidewalk.
Honey, they say, is a memory
of bees and breeze,
but I wonder if it’s also the taste
of everything we forgot to say?
Of words left unspoken,
pollen on the wind,
drifting just out of reach.
I’ve tasted the silence between the stars,
heard the hum of all we’ve left undone,
but still, we bloom.
Even here, in the cracks of concrete,
we reach for the sky,
hungry for the sweetness of things.
Maybe the moon isn’t stuck in our throats,
maybe it’s waiting for us to find the words,
to let them spill like honey,
sticky and slow,
so we can taste what we were always meant to say.
What if the stars are just stories
we haven’t learned how to tell yet,
if the moon is not a thing to be swallowed,
but something we must speak into the night,
slow, careful like the first time
we learned to say each other’s names?
Maybe, just as honey lingers on the tongue,
words might wrap around us,
to remind us that even in silence,
there is sweetness waiting to be tasted.
Maybe we are never truly lost,
just waiting—
waiting to say aloud what we already know,
to let the moonlight pour from our mouths,
to make the dark a little less afraid.
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