I sat under the stars last night. I looked up at the full moon, God it was full. I stared at it, I stared long and hard, not blinking, just like I do whenever the moon is bright, and round, and somehow mysteriously conspicuous. I stared at the moon like that in San Francisco, from the back seat of a minivan. Staring as though somehow the moon would sink into my eyes, and imprint its secrets on the back side of my skull. I stared at that same moon in the summers of my youth, before the world was harsh and cruel, before responsibility, before I knew that I was scarred and bruised and battered. Somehow that moon is comforting, consoling, and ominously forboading. I stared last night at the orb in the sky, broken, battered, and alone, and all I thought about was how the people next to me were sharing it, but didn't even know what it was they shared. That battered gem in the sky ment so much more to me last night than simply making out. To them it only represented an excuse, a reason to be together. To me it was a reminder of being apart. I stared at the moon last night, and it saw into my heart. I longed to be with anyone last night. Anyone was not there though. I sat with friends under a full moon, and thought about anyone. The moon sank into that empty hole in my heart, the one ripped in it so long ago, or was it not. The moon filled the gap you left there, and cauterized the wound. The scar it left had been there long before. I had carefully stitched it there. the scar is only a memory of an old wound, a reminder of something I cannot quite put my finger on. I sat under the moon, waiting for it to write its treasures in my eyeballs, and only felt alone. That full moon beckoned me into the sky, and I could not go. That full moon told me something, and I didn't speak the language. That full moon whispered to me of the things its seen, and I couldn't hear over the purr of the world below me. I sat under the moon, and waited, and waited, for you.