Under the Old Elm

That evening, we sat under the old elm, its bark flaking like dead scales from a fish. You pointed to the sky, but the stars did not come out— only the moon, swollen like a bruise above the rooftops. You whispered about the farmer, how he placed his scythe beneath his pillow, dreaming of storms. I listened, but saw only your shadow stretching across the grass, twisting with the branches. In that moment, you became the moon. Your hands—small enough to cup it— trembled as you talked about constellations, the fisherman’s hook snagging a fragment of the horizon’s sigh.. I wanted to laugh, but the night kept swallowing the sound. The wind rolled across the empty streets, gathering the scent of rain and some unseen flower blooming at midnight. And when I reached out, only your shadow touched me. The sky opened and I could swear I heard the stars laughing at us, or maybe it was just the elm, cracking under the weight of too many moons.