You're Like the Sun, and I'm More Like the Moon

When you say forever, how hard was it to swallow your hope. Charcoal drawings lace clouds and create endless flocks of migrating birds, spelling out the perfect reason why we are ready and willing to fall. I speculate if they are heading in the right direction, north or south, and if they know what's best. I wonder if we could learn a lesson from the natural, intertwined thoughts that these thousands of paper birds have embedded in their everlasting minds. Oh, you're just like the Sun, and I'm more like the Moon. How can the Sun and the Moon coexist if they are never visually in the sky at the same time? Sharing space, thoughts, and memories—existential lovers with a burning foundation. A crumbling foundation. Cracking like the decaying wood riddled with millions of termites, termites that have taken over. The imperfections of your cratered, burning body show how even the most necessary entities somehow lose their hope along the long path to victory. Burning so hot that no man, or heavenly body, can begin to touch. You, Sun, are more needed than the silly old Moon. The human race relies on you and fears your departure, plunging planet Earth into abiding darkness that will last for eternity. And when you burn out, what will I do? Who will take my place when I get tired? You make me shine, and without you, it will almost be as if I am burning out as well. The only solution: We must burn out together. Selfish, but the human race hasn't exactly been the most charitable. There's nothing left to hide. Stay, burn a hole that will shatter the Earth.