Why the Moon Weeps
The moon came with a whisper. Not until it rose high above did he realize the reason he couldn't rightly see his feet was because it had become night time. The luminous glow softened the stark, jutted edges of both himself and the figure that lay without motion. A violent shiver ripped through his body as the remnants of the day's heat which had stored away in his flesh fled him like an overturned birdcage.
Soon, he was huddled close to the icy body beneath him in attempt to share any reserves that may not have yet found escape. Wind whipped at his face, his arms and exposed flesh but it was a mere breath to him. A small twitch beneath him that he may have imagined but hell if he'd take any changes. The mop of burnished hair beneath him was the catalyst that kept him from putting his teeth to his wrists. There was little to fight for, anymore. In fact, there was nothing to fight for. There was nothing to fight. There was nothing. The only proof that there was once a fight was the raised, pink marks in their skin, the rusty ground and the ruins that still had yet to be erased from some parts of the earth.
The moon cast it's sympathetic rays on their burnt flesh, caressing their filthy locks and sharing their despair. For he understood, as his brother also lay dead or dying beside him and never would he leave the one his existence had been dedicated too. For he also trembled behind the larger body of his brother in fear of a more spiteful being on the other side. A being who struck out with a rage bestowed upon him and not as intentional as one might think. One who regarded his power as a right rather than a privilege and treated it as such. He, too, mourned the loss of one once even considered a lover, though not many can remember that far.
Because death and loss can be regarded as two very separate things, though one is rarely present without the other.
That is why the moon weeps.
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