One day I will ask the moon of the sun if he had watched him grow.
Did you see him stumble at his first steps or catch his first words as they rebounded off the hollows in your crust.
The moon will sadly reply that indeed he had not watched the sun grow, although he does watch him grow old.
Distant and shrouded his presence, like a holy host. At times his earnest sight gazes directly upon me and yet I find no comfort there in. His sight gazes elsewhere and brighter to so many others for such longer a time I find no sanctuary there. Indeed I hope when he has been shrouded again that perhaps he finds solace in me in someway, that I benign and silent do not thirst for anything from him. Instead I insist on keeping a snowdrift fortress watch upon his blazing days.
To anyone else, his time, spent a blaze and lingering may seem to have only subtle impact upon him. To me however, says the moon, I see less. He has been so long a vision of mine that less of him I see to each glimpse. He no longer holds a shimmer and his light less glowing. Less and less do I find bliss at the originality of him, knowing flawlessly every inch of what he is. With less and less I find fewer and fewer reasons to be thankful to the steadfast companion. Fewer and fewer thoughts are spent upon what words he would say if he said any to me. And I find that with less and less and fewer and fewer I am only left with the solitude of silence.
Yes the Sun has become so peaceful with age but where he may lumber on in his silent routine I am left to lose my words. Lose the base upon which they stand because like my fondness for the Sun they too are waning. It comes to me that one day I will seek to speak and cease to think and I find that I am thinking of what will be the last thought I will have thought. And I hope that it is of the Sun.