The Moon would’ve told me your name if I asked. I could see the beads of your vowels glinting against its dusty mirrored surface. Luring me in like a question that’s proud of having no answer. But I preferred the work of searching for your jumping consonants through cursive concrete streets in the eyes of the never blinking Sun. To experience the shadow chopping letters of other names. Understanding how those names fit inside my mouth gave me the ceiling-less gratitude for how perfect yours can slip through the cracks of my closed teeth. Seeping in like every one of your letters was carved intently for each of my separate gaps. The breath of your name wouldn’t have tasted as sweet if it was given to me before I knew what taste was. I’m glad I didn’t ask the Moon your name. I realize now that I wouldn’t have known how. And I like it better that I got you without asking. Because it lets me know that I was supposed to.