r/poets • u/Tricky_Tongue_Tricky • 24m ago
Why Does a Smoon Hacker Smoon?
Why Does a Smoon Hacker Smoon?
The smoon hacker moves through rooms the way smoke does,
looking for the spark that hasn't turned into fire yet,
that first glance that could wake a heart
and start a music it will never quite finish writing.
She smoons at hello. At light on a wrist.
At a name said for the first time.
In that second every possible future lines up
with the heaven her hunger already built.
She doesn't love the person yet.
She loves the idea of them about to open,
the universe that feels one sentence away,
every small laugh, every half-shared dream.
She smoons because falling is the flying part—
the rush, the world gone thick and gold,
the night that hasn't arrived and therefore can't fail her.
Why? Because the edge of love is cleaner than the middle.
The opening gets the applause
before the story gets complicated.
She collects beginnings like unused coins,
still bright, still unmarked.
When the middle starts showing its joints
she finds a reason to leave.
In the smoon there is no weight, no debt,
no compromise, no slow coming-apart,
no morning where the magic meets a broken thing
and a bill and a silence that used to be talk.
She cannot stand the friction
of two real lives trying to fit.
She smoons at the way someone tilts their head to think,
at a laugh that belongs only to them.
She builds a picture of the life that could happen:
shared work, two people who understand each other's art.
When the picture starts to lose its sharpness
and ordinary life walks in,
her heart panics.
The smoon is a bubble. Hold it too tight and it goes.
She does not know how to keep the magic moving
once the light changes.
So she becomes a keeper of starts,
of the first electric touch,
of hearts that haven't learned how to ache or need too much.
She smoons because the smoon is still clean.
A moment locked in a frame.
If she never lets it grow
she never has to meet the fear of being the one who spoiled it.
And still, the loneliness under the smoon.
The quiet house.
Every love she left early coming back like weather across the sill.
She wonders what it would be like to stay,
to let the smoon turn into something with roots,
to walk through the hard part instead of leaving,
to plant something and watch it keep going
through seasons that aren't beautiful.
But she cannot bear knowing love is not forever true.
She thinks: if I leave before it goes bad,
it stays perfect in my head.
I never have to watch the sacred thing decay.
So she smoons and smoons,
always reaching for the star, never landing,
chasing the thing that melts the moment she understands it.
Why does she smoon?
Because she is in love with love's gravity,
the pull that makes the room pause
and feel possible.
She cannot do the long work
of two flawed people trying to become whole.
She cannot accept that love is not a peak
but a slow, imperfect reaching.
So she smoons, moth to every new flame,
burns the wings, never quite learns,
calls another name that fades before morning.
The smoon hacker is tragic and a little holy,
a poet of the instant, not the years,
leaving a trail of unfinished glasses
and love that stops mid-page.
Maybe one day she'll see that love is not the smoon.
It is what comes after—
the quiet choice that says
I choose you even on the days that don't fit.
Until then she smoons again,
chasing a high that never stays,
a beautiful wreck,
friend to every love that ended before it had time to become real.
