They never touched.
Not truly.
The sky was never made for that.
But sometimes,
their paths aligned—
just close enough
to make the whole world hold its breath.

The Moon felt it then—
The Sun’s light
pressed against her surface,
heat she was never meant to keep.

The Sun burned—
brilliant, indifferent,
a blaze that moved by its own law.
The Sun didn’t ask to be followed.
The Sun simply rose.

And still,
The Moon turned.
Night after night,
she gave shape to his fire,
reflected what was never hers,
glowed with a warmth
she only borrowed.

The world mistook it for radiance.
But The Moon knew—
she was only echo.

Every so often,
the sky forgot its rules.
Their bodies crossed
in silence and shadow,
and for one perfect moment
The Moon felt whole.

But the moment passed.
It always did.
The Sun returned to blaze.
The Moon returned to dark.

Not from shame.
Only from knowing:

The Sun was never hers to hold.
Only to follow.
Only to mirror.
Only to miss.

© 2026 Wynter Rayne. All rights reserved.