BOYS

MOON AND SUN

I often wonder about the girl who loved like the moon. Her face was kaleidoscopic— the fractions of her face made up more light than a crescent moon ever would. Across her face was the craters, sunk deep into her dimples and eyes. Ghosts whispered across her lips and with every word she spoke, a poem was played out instead.
But instead of loving the earth, she only ever loved the sun.
The sun was flaming— with phoenix eyes that lit up from the ashes. His face was so golden, it was often too bright to look at. He was too much, too much calamity than the moon could ever take. Everywhere he walked, trees would go up in flames, for his hands were made of firecrackers, dangerously burning everyone he touched.
Maybe that's why the moon turned away, the dark side facing him so she wouldn't get burnt. She had realized that even though he was the sun— all that glitters is not gold.
Her hands were made from stardust and when she touched the sun, she traced galaxies into his skin. When he touched her, he made marks like cigar burns. Smelling of wax candles and burnt paper.
She made ocean tides and he kept getting bigger and brighter and took the tides with him.
The moon loved the sun— but they would never collide.
Until one day when the universe collapses in on us, and the planets go up in smoke and dust, the sun will continue burning. And finally, the moon will be consumed as well— and she will weep celestial tears for she will never be the suns lover. The sun has always been much too large to ever love the moon.