Miss T. walked toward the back hall while the pleasant chatter of her company rang out behind her.

  She thought about the halls of her bar and what they could be. The blank faces of the doors, waiting to be given shape and identity. What would they become next as the new stories shaped them? She walked past one door with overgrown vines and leaves sprouting from its corners. Burlap bags were piled by the door.

  Pausing there for a moment, her eyes glazed and danced, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly playing through her memories. Her eyes sharpened into a brighter green. With a wide smile, she grabbed a burlap sack and pushed the door open, letting her feet lead her into the lush green forest floor. It was time for harvesting.

  The night sky kissed her face as she pushed through the jungle brush. The humid air met her skin, causing a familiar feeling of sweat to cover her. Journeying through this vast expanse had actually caused true sweat. Miss T. couldn't help but giggle. She walked until her feet hit some familiar cold, wet earth. A small dirt road greeted her. Out of instinct, an elegant half curtsy was performed, and she spoke.

  “Hello, old friend,” she said softly. “Can you show me the way to the fields I planted long ago?”

  The road gave no response nor an indication of adjustments. Miss T. waited a while before feeling properly ignored. The space between her words and the land was rejected. Something was already using the space between, well, everything. She looked around, and sure enough, there was no room for her voice. Perplexed, she carried on the path until she reached an open canopy.

  There she found a flat field of plants growing beautiful white flowers and large green leaves. She reached her bean field, but again, it was as if all the words in this space were taken up. Now this was concerning. Who or what could take up all the words in all spaces all at once?

  The ground shook, and she heard the voice sizzle like a volcano hitting the ocean. A high-pitched whine and a deep rumble filled the air. She rushed toward the sound, pushing further beyond the boundaries of this jungle. The open night sky met her vision as she saw the bright, pale curve of the crescent moon. It’s light, vast, and open. Her field of coffee plants waited behind her, but her breath couldn’t catch up to the excitement of the moment.

  The sound of rivers and brooks breaking free from their assigned positions reached her ears. Then the wind screamed and crashed through the woods, no longer wondering but aiming toward her and blowing her hair backward. Finally, in front of her was a mountaintop where the rumbling took place. It shuddered outward, shifting and trembling.

  In that place, Miss T. witnessed a conversation that spoke more than just words, but also declarations and impressions of raw desire. Like an ant eavesdropping on a conversation between two giants, Miss T. sat low and watched with anticipation.

  The rumbling only grew stronger as rocks began to split open, and sound was released. That space that held its breath was released all at once by the rocks themselves. A bridge-way of words was forming up toward the moon.

  “You shift your pale face away from me. Who are you to hang yourself in my sky? To show places of yourself, but never the fullness of who you are. There in my sky you hide, there in my sky affixed you turn your face aside. I deliberate, in such desperate desire to know you; to see your fullness, to experience your touch. Why are you so far from me?” The land said this with an ache in its words. A depth of sorrow so deep that Miss T. heard the ground nearby tear open into deep crevasses.

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  A hum occupied that same space. It was like the sound of a song in a dream that you cannot remember. A gentle power that aimed to support the bridge that the land was building.

  The moon replied.

  “It is true, from a distance, I do not take a lot of space. Nor do I show all of my faces. But that is my nature. A nature that must be nurtured. To see me without the empty spaces requires me to believe in your fullness. The strength of your land, the might of your field, the wonder of your oceans. But what is this to me, truly?

  “You have already affixed me to this position in the sky. Your gravity holds me tight. And if I were not to resist its might, I would crumble and tumble, falling from this height. Falling into night. Falling into you. Destroying you and all that is upon you.

  “No matter how long we long for a kiss, the space between us does not make right for this.”

  The land replied.

  “You speak of gravity? So freely affixed to your position you claim, but you only show yourself nightly the same. Your words are riddled with sweet half-truths, only giving me what your face can produce. To move my brooks, riverbeds, and oceans. You bare-headed behemoth. How dare you hold my tears hostage, my land is accosted, your power you fail to acknowledge?

  “Who are you to me, that you would have power over my land and seas? That your mood would move my tides and pull my feelings aside? That you so easily move me to tears and hold them back in one night's tear? Who are you to me, that I might suffer afar and still only see your half-faced brightness like a cold, distant star?”

  The moon replied.

  “Who are you to me that you catch me in your skies, hold my lights, but fail to draw me to your side? I am not one to be chosen lightly; the land you hold must be vast and stately.

  “I only grow closer the more I believe in you. Believe that your land could survive, and not be subsumed. Believe that you could hold me, to tell me, to quell me. I may look fair, distant, and far, but I’m fast, and my unknown power may leave scars.

  “No matter how long we long for a kiss, the space between us does not make right for this.”

  The moon began to move toward the land, becoming grander and brighter. The space between them was filled with true words of love. No tune was wasted, no rumble was depressive. It was two titans fully awakening themselves to each other, filling the once-empty space. Their love filled the emptiness. The empty was no more.

  This place chose to become something new as the land and the moon held their names true.

  The land replied.

  “How can I show you that I can hold you? How does a mountain show the ocean how strong and steady it is? How does the ocean show the dunes its depth of heart and cool breath? How do the dunes show that it is warm and tender? How do the glaciers try their hands at being pretenders? No, indeed, they cannot, but their truth never stops.

  “I am a statue in living motion, but hold a feeling of constant devotion. I have had lovers before, wild and primal. For a season, it was fun but only elemental. In the end, it left my field burned or bruised. Beloved flames, my heart gently consumed. The truth of their light, in fullness and bright, only fickle and folly was my reward with bitter want.”

  The land shifted and the ground rose, drifting upward as he saw the moon’s approach. The foliage in the wildlife began to bloom and reach.

  Miss T. understood that this would probably be her last chance to pick up the coffee beans fresh from this place. She stood and gingerly picked the beans from the trees, stuffing them in her burlap sack. Oh, how she loved this place. How the leaves soaked up the moonlight and created such a wonderful taste. She would miss it here, but understood that something new would take its place.

  The moon replied.

  “Short nights have left me wanting more. Now I have to leave, only feeling scorned. I’ve waited for someone for so very long, my entire existence, I’ve been singing one song. Your uprightness, brightness, and open spaces brought me to you.

  “Out of the night—you caught my voice.

  “Out of the black—you caught my light.

  “Out of the empty—you caught my gravity.

  “You took your time to find my rhythm and play toward my signs.”

  The moon grew full and bright. She drew closer, and the land became vibrant.

  Miss T. moved deftly through the coffee bean lot back to the woodland jungle, back toward the door she came through. The foliage grew at an exponential rate, and she glanced back and saw the moon gliding down with such graceful vehemence. She knew this would be the last stanza.