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Summary
The two miss each other over and over again. It's a dance in which a hair-thin margin forever separates them. Two ships passing each other in the night, never crashing into each other in that surely-destined way. The way that the sun believes them to be—destined, that is. Or maybe it is less destined than it is this purposeful rewiring; the sun grabs the strings of fate and knits miles of warmth in the shape of the moon's name.
It's reverence, it's devotion, it's piteous. It's the only thing to get him through the endlessly dark days in waiting for it, in wishing for it: the selenelion.