Pure Love

The night skies are always beautiful. Glistening little specks twinkling against the perpetual darkness, one never overpowering the other, each pretty in their own unique way. Twinkling little blues, yellows, and whites. I looked at the crescent moon, lying down, looking at a smile. And I remember someone telling me that it would have been nice to see two stars above that crescent glow to mimic the smile I had on my face that night. I look up to watch the moon at it's prettiest and think, yeah, it would look great to see two stars above it, like the sky is smiling down at me. But everytime I look up, the crescent stands alone, looking like a glaring grin staring down at you, mocking your loneliness, because he, too, stands alone in the sky's black pool. What a selfish desire the moon has. But I can't blame him if he didn't have friends along with him in the sky, unlike the stars. So, I respect his loneliness, let it mock mine and a million other's. He is still beautiful. The nightsky will always be beautiful. The cool breeze, the cold touch of the grass, the silence in the air. It's beauty in a very natural form. It's love at its purest, in its most pristine form. So, I look up, sigh, and smile. Mock me, if you must, moon. As the earth revolves and the day pass, you'll soon lose your mocking smirk and end up a gaping hole in the sky. The stars will still be twinkling pretty specks, the breeze will still be cool, the grass will still feel like a cold blanket against my skin, the silence will forever exist, and I will still smile.