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Moonlight.
untainted pure essence of
It always seems so tangible. As though you could stretch out your fingers, immerse your fingers in ethereal light. And then you do and your fingers fall through and it’s nothing more than empty air and you feel stupid, so stupid, for trusting to the moonlight to transport you to the land of Forever and you tell yourself you will never let yourself be so vulnerable again. But the empty space is illuminated so it is so much more than air; you know it is, so you reach out one more time. When your fingers are steeped in shining white light, for no matter how brief a moment, it reflects off your fingers, touching your face with a soft glow.
lighting up my fingers lighting up my face lighting me up
They used to think that sleeping in the moonlight could give you nightmares; that perhaps the cold, desolateness of the moon would seep into your dreams, taint them, twist them the same way it could twist tree branches scraping against windows into clutching, bony fingers. They’d tell their children to never sleep in moonlight, not chancing their children to be stolen away from them in the chill grasp of the laughing moon.
mine mine mine i have made my choice it is mine to make even if
But really moonlight can do anything, evoke any emotion. It can be cold, hard, tempered steel, or the unsullied chasteness of a young girl’s smile. The moon can be the pure embodiment of light, or the eerie, harbinger of doom that Professor Lupin fears. No matter which emotions it is drawing out, it will come in raw form, undistilled, unrefined; there is nothing else that elicits such naked emotions as the moon. It is elemental.
brutal harsh unapologetic
And yet in its brilliancy it is gentle, slowly steeping rose gardens in magic, brushing cold, longing fingers against sleeping faces. It finds harshness in gentleness and tenderness in ruthlessness. Empathy but never meekness.
but you don’t know him like I do you really don’t
The moon takes the light from the sun and makes it its own, transforming it from fierce blatancy to subtle undertones that stand out all the more for their subtlety. Sunlight never has quite the same mystic quality the moon imbues it with. The borrowed light of the moon is more brilliant than the sun’s own.
and everything else ceases to matter
Moonlight strips everything of their false veneers. In the clean-lined moonlight of the witching hour, shadows are sharp on the floor, sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to shred your world. Everything is laid out, stark, in black and white, no remorse for revealing all.
this is how it is this is real for me it is
It bleaches colour away. Things most vibrant in daylight are reduced to the palest of insignificances in the brilliance. Gradually, all you see is the light.
this is it this is all i want all i will need
She sits on the bench under the open sky. Between them, her fingers find his, and don’t fall through.
untainted pure essence of
It always seems so tangible. As though you could stretch out your fingers, immerse your fingers in ethereal light. And then you do and your fingers fall through and it’s nothing more than empty air and you feel stupid, so stupid, for trusting to the moonlight to transport you to the land of Forever and you tell yourself you will never let yourself be so vulnerable again. But the empty space is illuminated so it is so much more than air; you know it is, so you reach out one more time. When your fingers are steeped in shining white light, for no matter how brief a moment, it reflects off your fingers, touching your face with a soft glow.
lighting up my fingers lighting up my face lighting me up
They used to think that sleeping in the moonlight could give you nightmares; that perhaps the cold, desolateness of the moon would seep into your dreams, taint them, twist them the same way it could twist tree branches scraping against windows into clutching, bony fingers. They’d tell their children to never sleep in moonlight, not chancing their children to be stolen away from them in the chill grasp of the laughing moon.
mine mine mine i have made my choice it is mine to make even if
But really moonlight can do anything, evoke any emotion. It can be cold, hard, tempered steel, or the unsullied chasteness of a young girl’s smile. The moon can be the pure embodiment of light, or the eerie, harbinger of doom that Professor Lupin fears. No matter which emotions it is drawing out, it will come in raw form, undistilled, unrefined; there is nothing else that elicits such naked emotions as the moon. It is elemental.
brutal harsh unapologetic
And yet in its brilliancy it is gentle, slowly steeping rose gardens in magic, brushing cold, longing fingers against sleeping faces. It finds harshness in gentleness and tenderness in ruthlessness. Empathy but never meekness.
but you don’t know him like I do you really don’t
The moon takes the light from the sun and makes it its own, transforming it from fierce blatancy to subtle undertones that stand out all the more for their subtlety. Sunlight never has quite the same mystic quality the moon imbues it with. The borrowed light of the moon is more brilliant than the sun’s own.
and everything else ceases to matter
Moonlight strips everything of their false veneers. In the clean-lined moonlight of the witching hour, shadows are sharp on the floor, sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to shred your world. Everything is laid out, stark, in black and white, no remorse for revealing all.
this is how it is this is real for me it is
It bleaches colour away. Things most vibrant in daylight are reduced to the palest of insignificances in the brilliance. Gradually, all you see is the light.
this is it this is all i want all i will need
She sits on the bench under the open sky. Between them, her fingers find his, and don’t fall through.
The End.
obssessedmadwoman is the author of 9 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Moonlight also liked 6 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 1 members. Members who liked Moonlight also liked 6 other stories.
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