How terrible it must be for the moon to never kiss the sun,
He must long for her warm touch,
To feel her fingers ignite him.
How many more times can he beg the sea to paint a picture of her brilliance,
Only to be met with " her beauty is blinding."
So he chases her in an infinite game,
Whispering to the star crossed constellations,
Of how much brighter he would shine,
Were he to have her by his side.