“Do you think the sun gets lonely up there?” Asks the moon, resting low.

“Yes,” says the burnt out star, Icarus’s follower.

“It burns hotter than I. It is bigger than I. No one gets close to _us,_ would they come closer to so much? No.”

“That’s sad.”

“It burns anyone who gets close; it is sad.”

The burnt out star looks at the moon. If it had eyes they would be sad too.

“Look at your bruises,” it coos to the moon, “look at what not being the sun costs you.”