The Love of One Man to the Moon

He looked at his love like she was the moon, not the sun. When he looked upon the sun, he would squint angrily at the ball of bright light for temporarily blinding him. But when he looked upon the moon, he would stare in awe of its beauty and power. When the sun shone too greatly, he would complain about it being too hot to do anything. When the moon did the same, he would congratulate her by gazing at the beautiful patches of ethereal light left in her wake. 

   When the sun hid behind her blanket of clouds, he wished it would return, but only to stop the possibility of rain coming. When the Moon hid, he yearned for her back to witness her elegance once more. When the sun left the sky for the night, he rejoiced for it meant the coming of the moon. When the moon left, he felt sorrow for it meant the coming of day and people and that bright ball of light, and he would not get to enjoy the beauty of night. 

   Call him a hypocrite, but when he looked upon his love, he did not look upon her like she was the sun, for she was not. He looked at her like she was the moon, ethereal, kind, and full of that certain something that the sun could never even hope to possess. He looked upon his love like she was the moon, for she was. She was the big ball in the sky that kept the peace after the sun’s rage fell away.