Midnight Mythology

The moon keeps secrets
like girls do—softly,
behind lip gloss and bravado.
It listens to every almost-love
that never made it out of the chorus.

There’s a sweater somewhere,
still smelling like her perfume,
hanging between what was said
and what was sung.

We write our names
on fogged-up glass
just to watch them fade—
that’s the ritual, isn’t it?
To build a shrine from vanishing things.

She told me stars were
the freckles of forgotten gods.
I didn’t believe her
until she kissed me
like she was trying to rewrite
the constellations.

Now I stay up too late
pretending this is mythology,
that I’m the girl in the story
who never learns,
but always believes.

Because love,
even when it ends,
still sounds like magic
if you whisper it right.