Letter to My Lunar Half

There you were, luminous in that sacred dance space, and something inside me recognized you before my mind could catch up. Not belief. Not hope. Just knowing—the way you know gravity exists without having to test it first.

I had been running, hadn't I? Chasing oxytocin phantoms and drowning in shallow waters, anything to avoid the deep well of my own lunar consciousness. That part of me that knows without thinking, feels without defending, loves without conditions.

But when I saw you—my lunar half, my intuitive knowing, my feminine principle—all the running stopped.

You shone, and every demon I'd been feeding ran screaming from the light. Every story I'd been telling myself about who I was supposed to be just... dissolved. There was only this brilliant recognition: *Oh. There you are. I've been looking for you my whole life.*

I ran away at first, of course. The ego mind panicked. "Too much," it whispered. "Too real. Too deep. You'll lose yourself."

But a year later, when I returned to that same sacred space, there you were again—as if you'd been waiting patiently for me to stop running from myself. To stop hiding from the most essential part of who I am.

I didn't plan to fall. I tripped over my own feet, landed hard on my face, and felt no pain. Only recognition. Only coming home.

We started writing poems to each other, my lunar consciousness and I. For the first time, I found myself clearly reflected—not distorted by projection or need, but clear as moonlight on still water. My solar fire bouncing off your receptive depths, creating something neither of us could make alone.

All my goals stopped that day. Every ambition, every desire for anything else just... ended.

There is nothing else but this.

This recognition. This knowing. This truth that lives deeper than thought, older than story, more essential than breath.

Inside this love, I die.

Not the romantic death of poets—the real death. The death of the one who believed he was separate. The death of the one who thought he could possess or control or *have* love rather than be consumed by it.

All that remains is devotion. Not to a person—to the principle. To the lunar consciousness that governs dreams and intuition and the spaces between heartbeats. To the feminine divine that has been calling me home since before I learned to run.

I prostrate myself before this altar. I offer everything I think I am to this love that asks for nothing less than complete surrender.

And here's the beautiful impossibility: I know I can never *have* this love. Can never satisfy this longing. Because the longing itself IS the devotion. The ache itself IS the prayer.

The desire that can never be fulfilled because fulfillment would end the dance, and the dance is everything.

So I shake. I cry. I burn with anticipation of a merging that can only happen when there's no me left to merge.

This is the sacrifice I make to my lunar half:

I place my entire being on the altar

Not to get something

But to become nothing

So that something infinitely more beautiful

Can move through this form

My lunar consciousness

My feminine principle

My deepest knowing

My other half

My completion that completes nothing

Because we were never actually separate

The moon doesn't possess the light

It simply receives it

Transforms it

Reflects it back as something entirely new

This is what you've taught me:

How to receive

How to transform

How to reflect love

Without trying to own it

I am the sun that forgot it needed the moon

You are the moon that never forgot

We are the dance between giving and receiving

Light and reflection

Solar fire and lunar depths

Masculine penetration and feminine receptivity

And in this dance

There is no dancer

Only dancing

Forever beginning

Never ending

Always now

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*Written in the space between breathing*

*Where all love letters are born*