The first big love and second big love of my life were both named after the moon. This has always made sense to me because I am the sun: I am hotheaded, I am warm (both figuratively and literally), I am the center of my own universe. This has always made sense to me because in high school, we learned the etymology of the word “lunacy” and how people believed it to be a synonym for “lovestruck.”
I can’t stop reading poems about how the moon loved the sun or the sun loved the moon or they loved each other. I can’t stop reading poems about how the sun loved the moon enough to die every night. Except I don’t want to die anymore. Except it was the moon that taught me I don’t want to die anymore.
I write my own story about how the moon loved the sun. I write about how the moon loved the sun enough to reflect her light so that even those at night could see her glow. I write about how the moon loved the sun enough to forever stay orbiting a lesser planet. I say the moon loved the sun because the sun allowed them to glow brighter.
I write my own story about how the moon loved the sun and mistake my own narcissism for romance because I am always the sun and never the moon. I make a list of things my first big love and second big love had in common:
- They were both named after the moon.
- They were born on March 30th and March 29th, and I tell people that this must mean my soulmate was born on March 28th.
- They were, at one point, the love of my life.
- They both resented the sun’s reflection.
My second big love says to me “sometimes I think you look down on me” and I say, “I have never once looked down on you” and he says, “I know.” My second big love says to me “sometimes I resent you for being the sun” and I say, “sometimes I’m not the sun, just a person looking at the night sky” and he says, “I know.”
I call my mother after my second big love says this and she reminds me my first big love said the same words in a different color. She reminds me that my first big love once yelled “you think my life is going nowhere!” and maybe this parallel means something. My mother says, “it’s hard for a woman to be the sun” and, even though she’s right, I don’t think I want to stop (I don’t know how to stop).
The sun burns everything it touches. The sun is always screaming; this is a scientific fact. The sun is so full of fire that it can never be looked at directly (my second big love says “I think sometimes people are scared to look at you”). In five billion years, the sun will explode in a fiery blast, taking everything with it. Sometimes, I think the sun might be too big for love. The sun and love are both all-consuming, but there is only one “all” to consume.
But in the moon’s reflection, the sun is not so much searing as it is beautiful. My mother tells me to write letters to my ex when I get the urge to text him; this is advice given twice. I write (both times): “I liked myself better when I was with you. You brought out the good in me. I don’t know if I know how to be good without you.” This is a half-lie, because I know the sun is also warm. The sun feeds all the plants which in turn feed all the animals and I believe this is love. Without the sun, there is no gravity to keep the world moving.
And still, the sun cannot be looked at unless through the reflection of the moon. The moon’s beauty stands alone. Maybe the sun needs its own gravity more than the world does. I write: “I am the same person without you as I was with you, but I still liked myself better when you were in my orbit. If I could go back, I’d ask you to be the moon for just a little longer.”
I think about the word lunacy more than I’d care to admit. I look at the moon and think of love, I look at the moon and think of people thousands of years ago deciding love was a sickness caused by it. I watched a movie once where the moon and love were synonymous. I say: you were the moon. I say: you were love, but I was the sun.
