You can’t look directly at the Sun.

You can try a surreptitious glance when the clouds come over. But, other than that, you can only look when he is low on the horizon; hidden apart from his spreading glimmer of fire.

We worship the Sun… and yet – he does not allow us to gaze upon him.

The Moon sighed as she told me how she used to be worshipped too. How the people studied her changing mood and celebrated her cycles. How she welcomed their lingering stares in all her guises.

The Moon told me how she would tug at the women’s bellies. Readying them. Ripening them. How the women would howl with need when she was full, and use her darkness to call in their dreams.

The Moon told me of the time she’d watched me. It was late – she’d been waiting for the Sun to leave so that we could be alone.

When, finally, the Moon had her time to shine, she illuminated my naked body with her gaze.

She watched as hands caressed the fullness of my breasts. As my belly rose and fell in soft gasps. As the waves and currents pooled and spilled between my thighs.

She told me how she longed to be witnessed in her own nakedness again. To be appreciated and worshipped once more.

Then the Moon told me this message for you: it doesn’t matter that you can’t look at the Sun. You can look in a mirror and contemplate your own light. You can learn the shape of your changing body. You can worship what is yours.

The Moon told me.

So, it must be true.

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