The moth flutters through the night, in search of that elusive, pale temptation; that lover that hides her face and denies her glowing presence as regularly as the seasons change. Her guiding light with it's cool caress the only constant in his fleeting life; he cannot afford to tarry. Finally, he glimpses a faint flicker through the trees. His wings beat harder, his hope grows. There! There she is! The loveliness of her face humbles him and he yearns for her nearness. He approaches with reverence and adoration. Her beauty blinds him but he does not mourn his loss. He is with his love. He ignores the unfamiliar warmth emanating from his usually cool mistress. Ignores as well the deep seated knowledge that he has never before been able to reach her distant company. All he knows is rapture- joy at the welcome presence of the only desire that nearly- nearly competes with the satisfaction of finding a perfect mate. He has found his moon. Here he is complete and will stay until the end of his existence, until the end of time.
