The lovers slipped down to the beach at night to watch beauty that could only be seen in the dark. Grey blue fire bioluminescent on the shore. Doomed never to shine by day when the sun they loved could witness their tribute.
But only the moon looked on, and it was thinking of those first footsteps. Michael Collins never touched the moon, but his was the shoulder they stepped on to reach it. The moon called the sun.
The sun and moon round pints. The sun marvelling at the wonders the moon told after a few drinks. Longed to see this plankton that yearned for it. Looked at its glass and felt sad that humans would never set foot on its surface. There was no surface, just denser and denser plasma, too hot to approach.
The sun was getting fuzzier with each drink. The moon in a hazy numbness. They drank up and headed back to orbits.
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