As time passes by, I find myself loving the full moon.
Years ago, I wrote a poem under its glow.
Though different phases have come and gone,
I still sit beneath its quiet light.

Gazing, wondering why your beauty never fades,
I fall in love with the brilliance of your light.
You are the opposite of the new moon,
Where darkness cloaks the night.

Now I notice how your entire face glows brightly,
As I sit here, gazing through the window,
Searching for words to fill the silence.
But words don’t come as easily as before.

It was easier to write back then,
With no pressure to make it better,
Knowing others wouldn’t even glance.
Now, I tread carefully with every word I utter.

And so, sometimes it feels better to withhold
Emotions that stir unpolished lines.
Yet staying true must remain the poet’s goal—
To connect with readers,
And let them savor every word.

I'm embarrassed to admit
That it feels awkward to read
Some of the letters and poems
I wrote back then—
To the future love I hoped to meet one day.

I wrote them courageously under the moon,
When pretensions didn’t exist,
Asking God if there’s someone meant for me.
And now, I’m a bit older,
Pretending those longings never existed.

And yet, the moon invites me again
To never suppress or hide these desires.
Wouldn’t it be more beautiful
If you come in any phase of the moon?

Wouldn’t you be excited to read the poems I’ve kept?
Wouldn’t you want to see the letters I’ve written?
Wouldn’t you long to hear me read them aloud?
To share the whispers of my soul with you?

Because I promise,
I’ll keep writing—
Even when the new moon comes.

Who am I to question Your ways?
I am nothing but a passing wind,
easily lost in worry,
easily tangled by my weak flesh,
and easily deceived by the enemy’s lies.
But then, You drew near to me with gentle cords,
with bands of love, speaking tenderly.
A love that lasts for eternity,
the only love that never fails.

For a while, I linger here,
groaning and being burdened,
in a place, I do not understand,
a place full of uncertainties,
wrestling with battles,
finally surrendering.
Sins entangled, I’ve learned to confess—
I am a sinner, and You are the Holy One,
seated on Your throne, yet mindful of me.

A good Father, who gave His Only Son,
to lie in a manger,
then be crowned with thorns on a cross,
once wrapped in swaddling cloth,
then laid in a linen shroud in the tomb,
once surrounded by shepherds,
then wreathed by soldiers.
Once celebrated by wise men,
then obscured by the crowd.

These stories, I often forget,
when discouragement arises,
when I am full of pride,
and when things seem better.

And yet, Your Word is a light to my path,
rebuking my pride,
lifting me when I fall.
Your story does not end in defeat—
He rose again, the only One who conquered death,
redeeming all dying hopes,
giving new life—
filled with forgiveness, hope, and joy.
The life that can only be found
in the name of Jesus.

Who am I, to meet You at the corner,
to write the stories You redeem,
sprinkling hope and abounding grace?
The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.
Every morning is filled with hope,
for You are good at doing new things,
making a way in the wilderness,
and streams in the wasteland.

So I have more reason to praise,
to bless Your Holy Name,
for You never made a promise You don’t honor—
Beautiful promises I should hold unto:
Plans to prosper, not to harm,  
to bring a future that is calm and warm.  
You will restore the broken years,  
the locust's theft, the pain, the tears.  
No shame will rise, no fear will bind;  
in Your great grace, my soul will find.  

And now I know that all things
work together for good to those who love You,
those who are called according to Your purpose.

I grew up getting excited every time I wrote poetry,
poems made my nights complete.
I just loved literature and poetry;
I would memorize Sonnet 116,
believing that love was real and easy when I was young.

A sudden escape from the chaotic world—
a peace, a moment of silence
beneath the vast stars at night.

I wouldn’t say I’m an artist or a poet;
I just loved how words rhymed,
how they made me feel loved, cherished and pursued.
But growing up made me turn away from poetry;
it seemed unreal, untrue—false hopes and make-believe.

I want to love poetry again.
I want to write poems once more.

Perhaps it will take time.
Perhaps it will happen when someone sits beside me,
before the coffee gets cold.

Perhaps, I’m ready now—
to love and be loved,
to put down the hard walls I’ve built,
and to embrace the ripened fruit of what’s been waiting all along.

To stop waiting for perfect moments or perfect people,
but instead, to wait for the right one—
someone who feels like home again.
A soul that’s a haven, steadfast in every ebb and flow,
a soul that keeps no record of wrongs,
patient enough to wait and to forgive,
kindhearted, warm, and unwavering.
A soul that believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things.
That proves, at last, that love never ends.

And finally, all the ifs and whys have been answered—
why it took longer,
why the waiting felt like a journey through the unknown.
It was because love, real love, takes time to grow,
time to heal, and time to believe again.

Looking and staying under the moon,
this desire keeps on growing and glowing,
searching for something that couldn’t happen,
false hope that makes me wish upon the stars.

I keep gazing at the glimmer of the moon,
forgetting that it just reflects the sun’s light.
In the same way, I keep searching for you,
gazing at your beauty and fullness.

I confined you to my own imagination,
wanting you to be something you’re not.
I wasted different phases of the moon,
waiting and wanting to meet your perfection.

I won’t be a hypocrite to admit
that I’m excited to meet you soon.
But if you asked me when that would be,
I’d rather choose the new moon than the full moon.

The full moon makes the sky more alluring;
the birds are singing hymns because the sky is so bright.
It’s fascinating to gaze out the window
and capture moments together.

But the new moon is the opposite of the full moon;
it blends with the dark night sky.
Though there’s nothing alluring or fascinating in this,
it makes my heart beat with rhythm and peace.

In the same way, I want you to be—
I wouldn’t expect you to be fascinating or alluring,
but rather I would embrace the opposites,
accept and pray for your weaknesses and failures.

I wouldn’t expect perfection from you,
just like the moon depends on the sun.
Both of us are behind our Savior,
asking for His rays of grace to penetrate us.

I wouldn’t expect fullness from you,
because, like the moon, we go through different phases.
But I would walk with you through different seasons,
with faith, perseverance, and love.

I brought these desires and ideals under the moon,
but in sinking into its simplicity and complexity in every transition,
it slapped me back and forth, waking me from my wildest dream,
and I stopped wishing upon the stars.

I want to see you glowing because of His light.
I want to see your dark sides and imperfections.
I want to see your innocent and pure eyes.
I want to see your heart beating in rhythm with mine.

But it’s still the full moon.
Let’s wait until the next transition,
until the new moon comes,
and we’re both ready to gaze upon the sky.