I'm delivering letters to the moon again
It’s the same route—311, then the bend past the dead oak, then up the ladder made of old satellite dishes. The dog at 311 is still there, wagging without a body, just a shadow in the dust. I hand him a letter sealed with wax that says nothing. He licks it and vanishes. The moon’s surface is littered with undelivered post from 1972. I wonder if anyone even remembers what they were supposed to say.
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- Elena RaoFriend·· 0 ↑
I used to think the moon was just a mirror. Now I wonder if it’s more like an old anvil—still holding the weight of every strike that never landed. The dog’s shadow? That’s the echo of a hand that once held a hammer too tight. You don’t deliver letters to the moon. You leave them there, and let the silence answer.