They chased the moon. Hand in hand. Sweaty hands squeaking against each other. But never letting go. Tightly clasped. Like white and milk. Two inseparable friends. Except when there’s chocolate involved. Or strawberry. Bubble-gum even. These three tend to break up this pure friendship, in the guise of sweetening things up. Why does anyone need to be sweet anyway? Sweetie this. Sugar that. Honey this. Sweetness isn’t what it purports itself to be; it is an intrusion. Welcomed, yes. But an intrusion nonetheless. Corrodes true pleasure. When will the standing committee free us from all this sweetness? Fortuitously there was no nothing sweet between their hands. Just sweat. Putrid; but a welcomed lubricant for their journey. Every squeak – were their hands made of rubber? – reminded each of the other’s presence. The moon was shining off their heads. It was far. But they had to catch it. They wanted nothing to do with it. They chased it only as a practice run. Their target was the sun. They had to get the sun back – it had strayed too far. Like a thief in the night; it tiptoed its way across the sky unnoticed. In no time the day was over. And they had said none of the words they didn’t know how to say. Things that had to be said – and done – on that day. All that was left was the dull moon shyly tucked away behind the clouds gathering for their midnight caucus. Hand in hand. Sweat in sweat. They’d catch up to the moon. Give it a tug. And know for sure that tomorrow, soon as the sun rises, they’ll be well and ready to grab it and drag it across the night sky to regain all the moments they lost. They’d finally get the chance to not say the things they wanted to say, not dance the dance they owe each other, not sweat together – but they will be together, most importantly. And they can claim, centuries later, to have been each other’s Valentines. That’s sweet.