Talking To The Moon
I know you're somewhere out there,
Somewhere far away.
I want you back,
I want you back.
A lonely man, an average-sized one with dark blue-grey eyes and sandy light-brown hair, sat alone in an armchair. He was looking out the window of his first floor flat at the stars and the moon, so empty. He stared at the moon, wondering what could be out there for him at all, now that he's lost everything he had, everyone he could ever want. All he could do was remember the man he lost, the only thing he had. He wants him back.
My neighbors think I'm crazy,
But they don't understand.
You're all I have,
You're all I have.
The elderly light-haired neighbor knocked tentatively on the door to the flat. The lonely man turned around, reaching for his cane and hobbling to the door to let her in. She came in carrying a tray loaded with two teacups, a teapot, and lots of bread and jams. She set it on the table and turned to face the lonely man.
"Dear, you need to eat something." she said in her soft, gentle voice, placing her hand on his shoulder. The lonely man just stared at her absently, not really recognizing her, because she wasn't who he wanted. She wasn't who he needed, his everything. "Dear?"
The lonely man touched his free hand to hers reassuringly, patting it before looking back out the window, at the moon, at the street, maybe he was waiting for someone to return. The little old woman watched after him worriedly.
"I don't need to eat, sometimes." the lonely man told her quietly. The woman looked at him, scanning his face.
"You remind me of him sometimes, you picked up his little habits." she whispered. The lonely man looked back down at the woman. A choked breath escaped his throat before he covered his face.
"Please leave." he asked, his voice louder than before, but still not a normal register. The woman nodded, kissing his cheek and leaving, shutting the door softly behind her.
At night when the stars light up my room,
I sit by myself talking to the moon,
Trying to get to you,
In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too.
The lonely man looked down at the tray his neighbor left before hobbling back to the chair, dropping his cane on the floor with a careless clatter and falling into the cushions. He held his face in his hands, warm, salty water dripping from his eyes into his palms and down his wrists as the apartment was filled with the only kind of noise it really heard from the man lately. Sobs tore from his lungs and throat, and he looked up out the window to distract himself.
With the lights all out, with the fire out in the fireplace, the only light in the room came from the bright stars in the clear London sky. The shining moon was full tonight, the sad opposite of this empty man who was looking at it for an answer.
"Why you? Why didn't you think of me before you left?" the man whispered to the moon. "Your work came first. I thought you loved me. I should've known better."
Even though the lonely man knew he came first to the one he lost, he was trying to make himself feel better by making him feel like he didn't really matter. So that maybe he wouldn't be so alone.
Or am I a fool who sits alone
Talking to the moon?
The lonely man watched the moon, waiting for his answer. "Didn't you love me? Didn't I matter?"
The moon stared back blankly, her face white, perhaps drained of color in her embarrassment that the lonely man knew the truth.
Maybe it drained in death. The man thought blankly before allowing a fresh round of sobs to come from the thought.
Don't be ridiculous. You're a fool. The lonely man sniffed, rubbing his face with his calloused hands, feeling a familiar twang in his shoulder from an old injury. The moon will not answer you. The moon is not him.
He looked at the moon a second longer, waiting, before he looked back down at the street. A woman was pointing to his window.
I'm feeling like I'm famous, the talk of the town.
They say I've gone mad.
Yeah, I've gone mad.
The lonely man watched the woman pointing, and she spoke to her friend.
That's where the mad man lives. He lost his husband, poor thing. He never comes out anymore. The man read the words on her lips, but they no longer held any meaning. He saw the words all the time. He heard them occasionally, when the elderly neighbor would force his window open for air. But it made no difference. Maybe he is mad. But what does it matter, when the only person who he kept him sane was gone?
He can't be gone. He lived through so much. The lonely man thought, but he knew it had to be true. He remembered vaguely the knock downstairs, opening his own door to see who it was his elderly neighbor, who is his landlady, was talking to. A woman in professional clothing, texting while she spoke. The landlady gasped at what the woman said, but the woman did not care; she turned and left, never looking up from her phone. The elderly woman clapped her hand over her mouth, sobbing, tears running over her fingers, her other hand clasping the doorframe for support. The lonely man had run down the seventeen steps, helping her, pulling her arm around his shoulders, supporting her weight.
He had to wait for her to calm down to hear what had happened. He didn't remember anything for a few days after that.
But they don't know what I know.
'Cause when the sun goes down,
Someone's talking back.
Yeah, they're talking back.
Sometimes, he could still hear his voice. His voice calling from the other armchair, asking for this or that. Sometimes, he'd ask that empty, drained moon a question, and hear an answer.
"Why didn't you love me?" the lonely man would ask the moon, and a deep voice spoke behind him.
"Of course I loved you. Don't be an idiot. I couldn't live without you." the voice would say, too familiar, too painful. The lonely man would turn around, whip his head, trying to catch a glimpse, but the man to match the voice was never there. Probably his imagination. He probably was mad, but maybe, just maybe...
No, no maybes. He's not there. The lonely man told himself, in what he was hoping would be a reassuring way, but it still hurt.
At night when the stars light up my room,
I sit by myself, talking to the moon,
Trying to get to you.
In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too.
The lights, dull so far from their source, but still so bright, filled the lonely man's room as he reclined. He probably hadn't slept in four days by now. The nightmares weren't worth it, picturing how he might've gone, seeing it for himself. It was too much to bear, far too much.
He wondered what he looked like when he stumbled, taking down the man he so despised. At least that little bit of sun shined through the mushroom cloud that had become his life. The man who was responsible was dead at the hands of the man who he killed.
The lonely man stared up at the moon, farther to the right then she had been the last time the man looked up. He narrowed his eyes.
"You're not leaving me, too." he whispered. "I want..."
"What do you want?" the deep voice asked quietly behind him, in that prying tone he had when he was trying to understand what the lonely man was thinking.
"I want to talk to you again." he told the moon, trying to ignore the voice. "I want you back home with me, where you belong. But, I hope you're in a good place. That other side."
Do you ever hear me calling?
'Cause every night I'm talking to the moon,
Still trying to get to you.
"Please come back! Please!" the lonely man screamed at the window, at the moon, who stared back. The man had decided the moon was not embarrassed, or absent. She was cold, she didn't care. She wasn't going to give him anything except madness. "I need you! Please come home!" The moon just watched him coldly, indifferent.
"Please come home." his voice was lowering, whimpering, losing all the power it had gained so suddenly. Another tentative knock at the door, and the man flew to the door, struggling to walk without his cane. He wrenched the door open and clenched the doorframe.
"What?!" he demanded, and the little landlady looked up at him, startled.
The landlady touched his face gently. "Oh, dear, I heard you shouting, I--"
"You what?! You brought him back for me? I don't think you did!" the lonely man shouted at her, completely disregarding his breaking voice and pouring tears, his gasping breaths and tears in his throat.
"Love, come here." the little old lady helped him away from the door, shutting it, half-carrying him to the sofa under the bullethole-riddled wall, where he could barely see out the window. He caught a sliver of the moon.
"Thank you." he whispered to the woman covering his shoulders in an orange blanket. She nodded and laid a hand on his hair before going to retrieve the tray. The lonely man stared at the moon.
"I love you." he told it, empty, hoping for one last shot, but knowing he won't get it.
In hopes you're on the other side talking to me, too
Or am I a fool who sits alone
Talking to the moon?
Another lonely man sat beside the large rock formation, clothes torn, long limbs wrapped around themselves in an attempt to keep warm in the dark night. His extraordinarily light eyes stared at the moon, his dark curls falling messily all over his head, matted with sweat and water. His ripped scarf hung around his neck, his long trenchcoat hanging off of him in tatters, the rest of his clothes strung together between two trees to form a makeshift tent.
"I hope you haven't lost hope." he told the moon, though he didn't really see the moon. All he could see was the face of his lonely man. "I'm still here, I'm going to come home."
The moon stared back. Cold, indifferent. She always was, since the first time he saw her after this all happened. At least her face was changing over time, becoming more and more like the lonely man's face every time he looked.
"I hope you're waiting for me." he told the moon, his husband's face, before looking at his long hands, his arms bent at sharp angles around his thin legs and gangly frame. "I love you."
I know you're somewhere out there, somewhere far away.
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