Moon Pie

I didn’t ask you to bring me back the moon

just a moon pie.

Just something small.

Sugary. Southern. They’re all over the airport.

A symbol that said,

“I was listening when you shared.”

But you’re not interested in playing catch.

You’re too busy playing firefighter.

The one that says, “I’m needed elsewhere.”

The one that gives you permission to never truly arrive.

I mapped you a city

like a memory I still believed in

flavored in porch light and patience,

lined with board games, biscuits, and B-sides.

I carved my old neighborhood into a gift

you didn’t even unwrap.

I didn’t want a parade.

I just wanted you to say,

“She loved this street.”

“She fed me her stories and they tasted like home.”

But your replies came dressed in politeness.

Thoughtful. Chaotic good like always.

Like an over-enthusiastic thank you to a coworker who got you socks.

So no, you didn’t bring me back the moon.

Not even a moon pie.

And now I sit here wondering

if you ever meant to catch what I threw

or if I was just the girl who packed your itinerary

with all the places

you never meant to go with me.