O, swear not by the moon, the fickle moon, the inconstant moon…

I have never heeded Juliet.

For the moon, and its inconstancy, holds a fatal romantic attraction for me.

Last night was like any other as I prepared for sleep.  I closed my book, then gently pushed the cat aside, just enough so I could slip under the covers.  (Lately, he drapes lazily across my thigh as I read, his whiskers sending shivery tickles down my spine whenever they flutter against bare skin.)

I snuggled in as best as I could and turned off the lights.

But instead of being engulfed in darkness, my room shimmered so brightly that at first I thought I’d forgotten to flip the closet switch.

Then I looked up.  From my slightly skewed, semi-diagonal, cat-skirting angle, the moon, almost completely full, was gleaming down directly on me, lustrous through my skylights, illuminating my room.

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie…that’s amore.

That gorgeously fat pie-shaped moon slammed me right between the eyes, evoking wistful memories of amore gone by, days when good outweighed bad, when romantic optimism sprang hopeful from my breast, when love and desire mingled together as one, when I lost myself willingly and completely, not knowing where I ended and another began.  I could feel the longing overtaking me, consuming me….

By the light of the silvery moon, I want to spoon…

When I contracted to buy my home, I was madly in love, dreaming of us lying together in my bed, entwined and entangled, gazing up through the skylights, searching for stars.  And though I scan the skies nightly, it’s not exactly in the way I’d planned.

My cat is a welcome bedmate: warm, soft, appealingly tactile, with a rumbly deep purr that’s perfect white noise.  But sometimes, he’s not quite enough. I yearn, on occasion, to tangle in the moonlight with a human someone, sharing whispered dreams, succumbing to mutual desires, slumbering together, arms interwoven, breathing as one beneath the stars.

Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars…

And so, unlike Juliet, when I grow misty, I do swear by the inconstant moon, thoughts of love, romance and star-sprinkled kisses swirling through me under its gentle watchful eye.  For the moonlit night holds a warmth, a magic and a power, however fleeting, that too often dissipates in the cold, harsh, judgmental light of day.

My passion unfolds by the light of the moon.  My heart, bewitched and bemused, softens under its spell.  I look up into the vast dark sky, anchored by a luminous moon, pierced by twinkling stars, and I see into infinity, into endless possibilities, into the wonder and magnitude of pure love, absent pain, absent heartache.

So pledge to me by the moon, make promises beneath its amber glow, and this I vow:

I will believe…if not forever, at least until the sun rises.

I’ll find you
In the morning sun
And when the night is new.

I’ll be looking at the moon,
But I’ll be seeing you.