We are born to kiss the stars and dance with the Moon.

The Moon is always there. A half blink of shadow, a crescent of an eyelash, opulent in fullness, spellbound in nothingness, and a friend.

I slept under the moonlight and set my soul free, caged within jars like fireflies".

Sometimes,I doubt the courage My bones are made ofAnd then,A breath finds her way inAnd her way outThe half-way-almost-full moonSmiles down;My heart sighsAnd quietly whispers:I remember.

I want to take you under the moonlight.

Only the moon's smile can cure the unseen scars of darkness

Moon is the light from a lantern in heaven

He had won. He could release her at any time. But her lips... those soft, sweet petals were parting tremulously at the touch of his tongue, and she was granting him entry to the warmth of her mouth. He thrust boldly inside, wanting but one taste of her. Only one.

Rejoice with glitters of ashes tonightSparkling for moon's spiced silver biteUpon skin of darkness, loving night moreStorm begins unlocking cold wind's door

There is a moon,that rests in the quiet cornersof a lover’s lips.

The moon blows kisses to the evening primrose

Legend tells us that the High King of Tara, who ruled supreme over all the Kings of Ireland, looked out from his castle one day during the festival of Eostre and saw a fire blazing away on a far hillside. Furious with this obvious disregard for the law, for which the penalty was death, he sent out soldiers to arrest the guilty party. When the soldiers arrived at the hillside they found St Patrick, the patron Saint of Ireland, piling wood onto his fire and immediately seized him. Standing before the King he was asked why he disobeyed the law, and he explained that his fire was a sign that Christ had risen from the dead and was the light of the world. The King so admired Patrick’s courage that he forgave him and became a convert to Christianity!

Beware, lion’s lady, for your predator is hungry tonight. He may not wait long before devouring you.” “Devouring me?” she asked, challenge gleaming in her eyes. “What if I devour him first?

What are you cooking this night, wife?” One of the crepes picked that moment to dislodge itself from the ceiling. It landed at her feet with a plop as if on cue. “Crepes.” She kept a straight face and tried to look like this was the normal way to make crepes.

Time. She had to go home. As soon as the lunar eclipse occurred in three weeks. Because if she stayed here, she would die. Either from the bullet in her back, or from the pain that was slowly sinking talons into her.

A fierce possessiveness gripped him, a need to brand her, to make her his, now and forever. And he knew it was madness.