The man who loved the moon.

This probably isn't my best poem, but it's the one that means the most to me.

The sun was happiness, and she was the moon.

All the night long he would sit out in the cold, where the sun refused to reach

And he would stare longingly at the moon, who gazed happily upon the sun

Wanting nothing more than to bring the moon down to him

To caress her gently in his arms

But if he did, the earth itself would object

The oceans themselves would cry for the loss of their moon

And neither of them would see the sun

So he let her be.

For him, her sun was more important than his moon.