The face of the moon will always look like a tiger to me. I remember E once asked “When will you ever stop searching for the moon?” whenever we’re out at night. And I’d always tell him, “Never.” And then it dawned on me that maybe just like the moon, I’d never stop searching for him in every person I meet He’ll always be my moon… cold, distant and inconstant. One night he’ll show you all of
him, the next time, just half, then a quarter, then nothing at all. Inconstant. He was my moon. But all I’ll ever be is just one of the many other stars.


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