Sometimes the sun likes to steal kisses from the moon.

He’ll reach up over the horizon and trail
his fingers down the pale curve of her side,
make her shiver and tremble high in the sky.

She’ll wane and grow faint in the brightening blue,
always eager to go to bed after a long shift on the night watch,
but never slipping away completely until the sun
settles into his throne on the edge of the world
and breaks open a flask of gold, lets it spill out
between his fingers and bleed into the earth.

Every now and again he’ll surge up to meet her before she goes,
pulls her into the light and wraps her in warmth,
makes her dimples flush bright in her face as he kisses
her soft, gentle, and sends her on her way.

The moon will never tell,
but morning is her favorite part of night.