Turtle Writers Writing Prompt 103

The Moon and the Sun

Passing by his door, the young poet couldn’t miss the back of his love, sitting at the desk by the window. Lights off; staring at the sky and writing something; erasing it and, again, looking out, up, to what surely was the moon. He could see, after all, the full moon’s bright light coming in, illuminating the desk.

As quietly as possible, he went just behind his love and, gently, wrapped his arms around his beloved’s beautiful neck. The boy jumped in his seat, surprised, and then, rushed to cover the sheet of paper in front of him.

“What are you writing there, my Sun?”

“Nothing!… Just…. Nothing!”

The poet stooped to softly kiss the boy’s head. Then, smiling, he gently pulled him up, and took the boy’s seat, bringing his love between the desk and himself. For a few moments, the poet quietly sat there, simply smiling and admiringly staring at his beloved’s shy eyes. But the boy’s eyes, guilty as they were, never stopped looking right back into his.

Their knees were touching.

And as the boy kept on staring at his beloved’s smiling face, in this comfortable silence, he finally relaxed… Or, more precisely, he forgot his guilt. How could another thought remain in his mind, when in front of his eyes was the face he adored?

“You are so unbelievably beautiful, with the moonlight illuminating your face! I mean… so much more unbelievably beautiful than usual.”

The poet grinned. He took the boy’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

“Thank you, my love!”

And once more, the comfortable silence came back to the room, with the two of them, looking into each other’s eyes, unable to talk, unable to think, unable to do anything but smile and stare.

It was the poet the one who finally spoke first.

“So tell me, my love, please, tell me… what were you writing?”

“You’ll laugh at me…”

“Never! Never, my love!”

“I was writing… I mean… I was trying to write a poem…”

“A poem?!”

No irony, no arrogance… then what was that? Excitement? Yes! A joyful excitement.

“I know I’m not a poet, like you… I know I can’t really write a poem-”

“Don’t say that! Please let me see it! Please!”

Reluctantly the boy took the sheet in his hands.

“It’s not finished… I mean… I had hardly started… and not in a good way… It’s awful… It was supposed to be… I wanted it to be… well… decent enough… not good, of course! It couldn’t be good, I know! But decent enough… yes, decent enough, to give it to you. To tell you what a wonderful person you are. To tell you, in my stupid way, how much I admire you and love you… but it’s a piece of shit!”

“It can’t be a piece of shit, if it’s written by you!”

“It is!”

“Even if! Even if it is, your shit is adorable!”

And the boy, full of embarrassment, gave the poem to his love. And the poet read it. And his heart was overwhelmed with joy.

“It is perfect! It’s simply perfect!”

“You are just being nice, now!”

“No! It’s so you, and therefore it’s perfect! I mean it. Please, let me keep it! Please! Please!!!”

And the boy couldn’t but admire his beloved’s eyes looking at him, pleading, while he was squeezing the piece of paper against his chest.

“It’s yours to do with it whatever you want. It was always meant to be yours.”

The poet grinned. “Thank you, my love!”

“I’m such a fool. I was looking out of the window to see the moon, to describe you, when the only thing I had to do is look at you, my oh-so-seductive and bright moon!”

And the poet pulled the boy and sat him into his lap, facing each other. “Care to here a secret few, if any, know?”

“Sure!”

“The moon has no light, of its own. It’s the sun’s light reflection we see when we look at the moon!”

“Oh, come on! Now you tease me!”

“No! It’s the truth!”

“I know! Everybody knows! It’s not a secret! That’s what I mean!”

“You knew? I mean, even before I told you, you knew?”

“Yes! Of course!”

The poet bit his bottom lip and smiled even more brightly. “Tell me! I want to hear you telling me what you knew!” His voice deep and full of excitement.

Why? “I knew that the…” Oh, shit! That’s why!

The boy embraced the poet’s head and, tightly, held it against his chest. “That’s a lie! Yes, it’s a lie! The moon shines on its own its perfect light! It doesn’t need any unpolished light from no sun!”

And the poet wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist. He kissed the boy’s chest. “You are such a liar,” he whispered, fondly. “Such a sweet, little liar! And I love you for that, too!”