Light at the Edges

The moon sits on the edges of a bench,
its slow light caresses the night,
and the city holds its breath.
It lends its light to secrets no one dares whisper,
threads of silver tremble in the breath of evening,
every secret becomes a small constellation on the wood.
The bench is an altar of quietude, the night listens,
the moon writes invisible names on the damp wood,
and keeps them in a silence that does not betray.
When dawn advances, the light shatters and the secrets remain,
but the moon remains there, at the edge, faithful witness,
and promises to return to illuminate the whispers.