My first love was the moon.

In my darkest hours, he bled through my curtains.
He was quiet, never really having to say anything,
only gently bathing me in his light.

He replaced my tears with stars,
arranging them in constellations that told of our future,
proving to me I'd live long enough to even have a future.

Even when I refused to let him in,
even as I'd shut my windows and bundle under the covers,
I'd peek outside after some time and he'd still be there,
Night after night.
Waiting.
Patient.
Forgiving.
Loving.

Perhaps I had taken my moon for granted.
Perhaps one wasn't designed to wait forever.
Perhaps a moon can only share its light for so long.

Tonight I open my windows,
and for the first time,
the night has never been darker.