"We Used To Live There"

“We Used to Live There”

Remember?

The World is still waiting for Us

~ frank moth

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

The way Earth looked so small—
how human the two of them sitting and looking at something so foreign but familiar was…

I imagined the dialogue between the two changing, depending on the narrative living with me.
They changed as I changed.

I would imagine the guy saying one thing, and the girl saying another.
Sometimes they would talk freely together, comfortably, and sometimes they wouldn’t.
They would take turns questioning their view of the planet—the one which they both had to return to—about whether they deserved to go back, whether it was worth it, and what their purpose really was.

The man would normally recite a verse of the Bible, and the girl would usually listen, frozen and still, unable to question.
And sometimes, vice versa.

Other times, these two never brought religion into their daily convo.

The two agnostic beings would sit, gazing over the planet like a knowing partner, smiling at the happiness and all they know it to be within it.
They would laugh and joke, so excited to go back.

But most of the time, they weren’t.
They dreaded it.

They’d rather stay up on the moon, staying apart from it all,
breathing in little to no air,
choking on their words,
their tears,
their space (literally).

Every night, like clockwork, the two would come here to sit and chat.
No matter where they were that day—still on the moon, or still sitting there from before, or having gone back down to Earth and come back—they would always show up.

Except sometimes, they didn’t.

Sometimes the man would show up, and the woman wouldn’t.
And he would worry.
Question whether she finally choked,
the lack of oxygen taking her down somewhere.
Or whether she was too busy passing time on Earth with her family.

And the man would get lonely, sad and wondering whether those daily brief moments together were the last they’d ever have.

And then the next day, the girl would show up, explain why she was away.
And the same would happen the other way around.

I put myself into the shoes of the man, and the woman,
trying to understand their dialogue,
what’s going through their heads,
based on their lives and narrative and way of thinking.

But no matter who they were,
what they were thinking about,
or what their intentions and beliefs were on their lives,
they both stayed—
looking over the planet they called home,
or maybe didn’t.

And would both agree that it seemed so large, yet so small at the same time.

And that would shrink and grow whatever problems,
whatever ideas,
whatever beliefs they had,
because the size of everything they know was now small, instead of big.

Or big, instead of small.

And with that changing, the growing and shrinking of existence, of parts of their lives,
they would find gaps, and make room for other ideas,
other possibilities,
and decisions of what it all meant to them.

Because after all—that’s what they met to discuss, right?
Why they were here?
Why they weren’t?
What it was all for?

In that changing and growing,
that shift and splitting,
they never found the answer.

Night after night I would search for it, listening intently,
staring as the song of the day would play in my earbuds—usually always Clair de Lune—but it would answer in bits.
And it would change.

Like deciphering a code for a language I didn’t know.

Sometimes the answer was clear, sometimes it wasn’t.
But it always changed, and consistency was never made known.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

Some nights they would share an earbud,
playing the playlist I made for them.
Other times, they sat in silence.
One would listen, and the other wouldn’t.

They held hands.
They hugged.
One laid their head on the other’s shoulder.
They would move away.
Then lean back in.

Words were exchanged.
Or weren’t.
Sometimes they were in pain.
Other times, they weren’t.

Whatever lightness, or darkness, they brought up there with them,
the view before them would never change.

The eyes peering down at the planet would,
but Earth itself would stay forever turning,
without a care of all that’s happening within it.

Sometimes I would be mad at it,
for twirling while everything seemed to stop for me,
moving against the natural spin of the world.

Sometimes I would thank it,
for in its neglect and consistency, it kept the days coming,
despite my whole world stopping.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

Regardless of what I heard, or what was said,
I would imagine myself going about my day,
and everything that happened, and everything that didn’t,
I would bring with me,
as weight,
in a bag,
to accompany me in my daily meetup with that man,
or that woman,
or no one,
staring at the planet I just survived another day on.

And would question on my own—what was it all for?

And would another day there be worth it?

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

I have printed out this photo,
buying it from the artist’s website,
in the cheapest and smallest size he sold.
I didn’t plan out the dimensions.
I knew it was going to be small,
but I didn’t care.

Whatever shape or form I was getting it, I planned to put it in my wallet.
But when it came in the mail, it didn’t seem fitting in that pocket.

My eyes pulled to my bookshelf,
where I had a frame I had thrifted and had sitting there, collecting dust,
for years, never putting a photo in it because of its weird dimensions.

I gasped, got up, and slid the picture into the frame,
and voila—it fit perfectly.

I now keep that photo with me, bringing it wherever I’m living,
knowing that it was meant to be there and displayed in my life.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

And still, occasionally,
I would look at the photo.

I no longer imagined the dialogue between the two—
the faceless man and woman.

But now I sit,
back faced toward the moon,
sharing the bench with my inner child.

The younger me.

The me that sat there every night, staring at the spinning Earth.
She spent so much time up there–no matter what time I came to visit her,
she would almost always be there,
escaping her current reality in the quiet and stillness of the moon.

I sit with her,
sometimes sitting in silence,
allowing her to feel the presence of me knowing what she was going through,
and that being enough.

Sometimes we would share an earbud.
Me offering it to her, and her me.

Other times we would talk,
and I would tell her all about the life she is going to live.

I’d tell her all about how the world keeps spinning—
and while that seems sad,
it could also be a blessing.

Because I am here today because of it.

I encourage her to go back down to Earth,
to stop spending her days completely up here,
just because it’s so scary down there.

I tell her that it’s all worth it in the end—
living out each day, and making it around another spin of the planet.

She looks at me, defeated, but hopeful,
being that she’s never dreamed far enough to make it to the person I am today sitting with her.

She asks me frequently why I deserve to live as long as I had,
and I tell her I always have deserved the gift of life,
and those in my life at the time made me feel like I didn’t.

They’re the ones that leeched life out of her, not me.

I hug her—
sometimes her holding on and never letting go,
and other times her hugging lightly before pulling away,
numb and going through the motions.

It’s there for a formality,
a check of the box,
just to be nice.

But what wasn’t a formality, a required action,
was both of us up there, staring at the same view we called home.

We didn’t ask to be there, but we did ask to be on the moon.
And in that, that longing to escape,
that something’s got to be greater than our current world,
we sit, in knowing silence,
in a sauna of hopeless dreams and broken promises,
enjoying each other’s company.

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

I will meet you always, where you are on that bench, little anna. ✨🌝💛

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

If you’ve ever met yourself on the moon,
if you’ve ever cried only when you were alone—
I see you.

And I hope you get to go back—
this time, not alone.

Leave a comment