Yes, the Moon is lovely.
Her radiance is heavenly. At night she makes herself the center of a field of star-filled vision. Her movement is graceful, she glides across, beaconing me to follow. She draws on me like she draws a tide of admirers.
But though she seems to show different sides, it is merely a trick of the light. While she sometimes appears to approach, she stays always remote. I never get close enough to see her blemishes, to see the vacuum she moves in, how lifeless she truly is.
As long as we never meet, she reflects back to me whatever I project out into the space between us. Her perfection is a function of her distance. Her immortal cycle is nothing like my humanity.
My realm is in the imperfect, the failed, the beaten who still maintain a constancy that has been fired into them in the heat of their becoming. The beauty for me is there, a beauty I can hope to attain, expect to understand, that may recognize the same in me.
“Don’t tell me the moon is shining;
show me the glint of light on broken glass.”