He was the sun. He was bright and beautiful and larger than life. His head was huge and full of gas. Earth and all of the other planets in the galaxy revolved around him. When he got burnt out, he exploded into a fiery, destructive mess and collapsed in on himself, leaving a black hole in his wake. His light shone so bright that it reflected off of all of the moons.
He was the moon. He was a large piece of Earth that had broken off many, many years ago but was still caught in its orbit. The oceans’ waves were contingent upon his moods. His terrain was rough and parts of him were sunken in. Other parts were scarred by the footprints of humanity after they treaded on him. He shined even in the darkest of nights, but there was always a part of him that remained dark and cold. You’d feel weightless in his presence.
He was the Earth. He carried the weight of all humanity in his mind and his heart. He built mountains for every little thing he was passionate about, and filled oceans, rivers, or lakes with the salty water of his tears to wash away the ash when his joy crumbled down around him. His tectonic plates would grind violently together, wrecking buildings and lives with no warning, sometimes for no reason at all. He could drown millions of people with just one of his tsunamis. His core pumped blood as hot as molten lava throughout his every vein, right into his soul.
He was the planet I called home and the star my life revolved around and he was the satellite my tides were influenced by, and he was just a boy.
Humans are made of the same materials as the stars and the seas are made of, and this rule does not exempt him, me, or anyone. But the stars and the seas and he ran infinite, whereas I, and the rest of humanity, would not.