Our Hero loved the Sun.  And he was burning out from the fact that he could not achieve it.

   Barring her white teeth, she often smiled as she lighted up the darkness of his soul with her laughter.  In response, he trustingly pulled his hands towards her, receiving melting heat instead of warm embraces.

   And what did he expect, falling in love with the sun?

   The Sun could be endlessly loved, if only for the fact that it is so merciless ... warm ... unattainable ...

   Only now, the wings of the moth, shining in the moonlight, were closer.  All I had to do was stretch out my hands a little ... touch ... to wash away the pain from rotting burns with the cool night.

   The Moth's skin shone like silk in the street light.  White highlights gently caressed her collarbone, emphasizing the pearl that descended to the hollow of her chest.  The moth was dazzling, but so unlike the sun.

   This girl was a biblical serpent: her every glance was sweeter than the forbidden fruit.  Sinfulness emanated from the way she straightened her disobedient curls, from the way she smiled, when forgetting about the framework, our hero spoke of temptation.  In response to this weakness, she only beckoned him more.

   Perhaps he just longed for temptation, an ordinary fool to be lost in the maze of her graceful movements.  For the first time, he did not pray for "Ariadne's thread" or for a map, but wanted to tear down the walls to the devil to stroke and caress her milky skin ... All he had to do was reach ... cross the line with his lips, touching them to the bend of the neck.

   His hands demanded to check what was under the thin cotton, under the tight jeans ... Further ... Deeper ...

   He didn't even notice how he touched his lips to her neck.

   It was as if his lips were supposed to touch the delicate flesh.  As if it was not leather, but it was marshmallow.  Her scent drove him crazy, forcing him to rise higher: pavé the way with kisses to the mouth of the Moth.

   This kiss was like a deal.

   On the sacrificial altar of her lips, he put a shard of heart sharper than a knife, and she accepted it as a gift, ripping her whole soul about him.  The kiss: short and demanding, became their bloody seal, red lipstick smeared across their face.

   Stars fell on them that night.  From the end of the touch of lips, a new one was born, more passionate and attractive.

   Feelings on the border of a silly joke and passion.  A bit of interest and even more excitement.

   The moth did not care that at that moment the Hero was thinking about insects and God.  She had nothing to do with the Bible, and flew only in dreams.  And she was not a moth, despite the fact that she was led by someone else's warmth, by the heat emanating from his shoulders.  Sometimes he even felt stuffy, but not from boredom, but from their heavy breathing.

   The girl wanted to continue to touch her arms, ardent with embarrassment, to feel the burning flesh in her arms.  And the lips were a small part of this lump of touching.

    Some moths were said to eat carrion.  She really liked to treat herself to the corpse of his love for the sun.  But at the same time, she fell into his black eyes and breathed deeply the dust from a broken heart.  And running along his rough cheek, she wondered how far he would go.  How deep in his soul the night moth will sink.

   But did the Hero take on the responsibility of becoming the Sun for someone else?