I beat the moon to the corner of my bed, just before nightfall. As I steadied myself on the soft, slowly sinking mattress, my eyes venture into the distance, to the hills beyond, the palms that line the skyline. The sun melts into the sky, colors changing from blue to orange to pink to purple, before retreating into a deep navy. But my mind was not spent processing the beauties of the sky; instead, it hiked down one of the many trails in my brain, discovering, analyzing, crawling through tunnels, searching for the light. 

As the day ages, the reflection on my bedroom window strengthens, passing through a point where I can no longer draw the line between what's outside and what's in. The shadows ricochet, the light alters. The world unfolds like a watercolor painting, each stroke translucent, bringing about its own color and shape, as it interacts with the other layers in view. These layers fade and change with the light, byproducts of the sky dozing off. 

But I only care about one of these changes tonight, the crescent that seeps out from under the blanket of blue, getting more opaque by the moment. My friend finally shows up, extending her light towards me like a handshake, a familiar gentle glow, instantly recognizable despite her new outfit. Today, a bit of her had disappeared. 

I don’t return her greeting, not yet, because I am struck with awe as I examine her new body. I envy her, as she can change so effortlessly, like clockwork, and it was expected of her, the molding of her body written in stone, printed on my bedside calendar. 

Her light captures me, sucking me in. A word trickles off my tongue: phases. 

As the letters swirl into the air, a sense of groundedness fills my heart, like everything falling in place. I sneak one last glance at the moon and its shadowed parts, the key to my identity, reaching one hand up to feel the beats of the moon inside me. 

I too, my friend, have phases.