We like to presume that heartache is,
Purely subjugated to our whims,
Yet, up above us, there's a love story,
That, to this day, doesn't have a happy ending.
We watch as they dance across the sky,
The Sun in the morning, the Moon at night,
But, despite their seeming serenity,
There's tension heavier than gravity.
The Sun screams at the Moon; he wants control,
And since she's smaller, she does what she's told.
He's dominantly imposing in the morn,
So she silently waits for the Sun to set with scorn.
Nightfall approaches, and the Earth is quiet,
The only time she isn't forced to be compliant.
She tries to hold back, but she can't help but cry,
The Moon's tears burn in our night sky.
A crescent moon, a broken heart,
It slowly corrodes as the month goes on.
At some point, it all goes dark,
All of her light drained and gone.
Oh, the Sun, he has a plan,
He takes and kisses her trembling hands.
For a moment, her heart feels filled,
And the light starts growing till it's inevitably killed.
A constant cycle, like yin and yang,
They're endlessly bound, but neither is to blame.
She's desperately, dementedly, wishing for appreciation,
But he's consistently, volitionally, resorting to manipulation.
Her hope starts to wax again, and eventually she feels full,
Only for her lunar light to wane and dull.
She's wrapped around his finger, attracted by his mass,
Trying to move on, but locked by the past.
So, if you ever need an ear,
There's a constant listener each day of the year.
She's waiting outside; she never closes her eyes,
And she's always there to offer a comforting sigh.
She'll listen to each woe you vent,
As long as you're willing to listen to her own resentment.
She'll reach down to wipe the tears from your eyes,
She'll say, "Child, I'll be here all night."
Nov 26, 2025
Nov 26, 2025 at 9:20 PM UTC
We like to presume that heartache is,
Purely subjugated to our whims,
Yet, up above us, there's a love story,
That, to this day, doesn't have a happy ending.
We watch as they dance across the sky,
The Sun in the morning, the Moon at night,
But, despite their seeming serenity,
There's tension heavier than gravity.
The Sun screams at the Moon; he wants control,
And since she's smaller, she does what she's told.
He's dominantly imposing in the morn,
So she silently waits for the Sun to set with scorn.
Nightfall approaches, and the Earth is quiet,
The only time she isn't forced to be compliant.
She tries to hold back, but she can't help but cry,
The Moon's tears burn in our night sky.
A crescent moon, a broken heart,
It slowly corrodes as the month goes on.
At some point, it all goes dark,
All of her light drained and gone.
Oh, the Sun, he has a plan,
He takes and kisses her trembling hands.
For a moment, her heart feels filled,
And the light starts growing till it's inevitably killed.
A constant cycle, like yin and yang,
They're endlessly bound, but neither is to blame.
She's desperately, dementedly, wishing for appreciation,
But he's consistently, volitionally, resorting to manipulation.
Her hope starts to wax again, and eventually she feels full,
Only for her lunar light to wane and dull.
She's wrapped around his finger, attracted by his mass,
Trying to move on, but locked by the past.
So, if you ever need an ear,
There's a constant listener each day of the year.
She's waiting outside; she never closes her eyes,
And she's always there to offer a comforting sigh.
She'll listen to each woe you vent,
As long as you're willing to listen to her own resentment.
She'll reach down to wipe the tears from your eyes,
She'll say, "Child, I'll be here all night."
