There are some nights when you can’t outrun the moon.

It hangs over you, following your thoughts, resistant to the morning.

We tell ourselves there’s a happy ending, a resolution. When we peer inside from far out – unable to offer anything more than applause, cheer, or good feelings – we miss the sharp cuts and the depth of the patterns. We’re supposed to, for their protection and maybe our own.

Then all that’s left is the end. The aftermath. Meager offerings and cleanup.

Meanwhile, the sun rises and the moon remains.