You are the moon in curled grins, the type that make one question its ambiguity despite its charm. The old tale of creatures cast aside by day, at their fullest selves during a full moon. The moon embraces them, cherishes them the way none do, some may even consider the Lun a dark Gaia. When one looks at the moon, they cannot help but be drawn in, arousing wonder, a given when faced with the unknown. The drift in the air of night curling them towards its luminosity. There are many who fear the endless night, but the moon is always there to guide them to security whether it is but a dream or in sincerity to the collection of the lost. Like the moon, you are ancient in wisdom yet young in inquisitiveness. Now here comes the shooting star, the moon's beloved... as if birthed out of the blazing sun itself, peeling him bare, striking right through the dark, cutting at the layers with force. It demands attention in its path and so when with wish of the star intersects the moon, the moon is scorched by slash of heat that disturbs the illusion the night sky provides others. In doing so, the moon is stripped, for once, much like the crawlers under it. This star gone awry is a maverick so it will find homeliness in the moon and in turn, the moon feels alive at its core, having now felt what many before it has. Shooting stars are said to be a wish, so the moon gains a purpose meant for a human, to seek the wayward star for eternity onwards, a reminder of vitality.