The sun, a star

Love, something you should never throw away.

The sun, a star.

You.

Always looked at her as if she was the sun,

In that,

You never looked except in frustration.

Crinkled eyes watering under her constant for,

You flourished grudgingly under her warmth.

When she shone with full force you hid from her,

Yet you complained on the days when she was muted.

You looked past her brightness, away into the dark finiteness of space, wondering about other stars,

That you,

Called more beautiful.

Not noticing that her weaknesses,

Were ones that made her more lovely.

And when she wept, flares of gold,

Trickling into the galaxy,

You turned away, never

Seeing her beauty until she was leaving.

The moon, a stone shining with reflected grandeur.

She.

Always looked at you as if you were the moon,

Wondrously, always grateful for your presence.

When you hid she waited patiently for his uncovering.

When you shone your brightest,

she celebrated,

Anything special of yours was a milestone,

She wished for the day she would finally touch you, her fingers itching to feel your moon-white skin.

And although you were cold when she finally got there, she was enamored by your lightness, the feeling of floating in free space,

I called it anti-gravity,

She called it freedom, the dust of comets ghosting her fingers;

You were cold and lifeless, but for her, your reflected grandeur was enough to sate her appetite.

Gone, a final loss of presence.

And when she finally left,

With a final display,

Traces of gold lingering in her wake,

Leaving you alone with nothing but dust,

And the fragments of broken worlds,

You wept,

Silver, moon tears,

That dotted your dark skin,

And left it stained,

Glowing like the stars.

As you watched the empty space,

That she once filled.

Loss, the feeling of something missing.