Lune.

"The moon is a dictator.

More romantic people will tell you the moon is a magnet, with his gravitational pull and push. Force. Effort. Compulsion. Momentum. Muscles. Impulses. Tension. Velocity. Contractions. Pressure. Burdens. Whatever you call it, he dictates. Through some miraculous or magical force of nature and science, the moon communicates with the sea about where she should go, what she should do, how she should move. The moon, that full, white sphere that hangs in the sky with no effort at all every night, he is a dance partner to the ocean. He is one of those strong male leads whose left hand presses gently just above the small of your back and his right hand is firmly grasping the delicate, tiny fingers of his female counterpart. He leads subtly, with a slight contraction of muscles, a stability in the wrist, a push of the arm so faint that his partner listens with only the nerve endings in her fingertips.
Every night and every morning the moon and the sea dance."


I wrote that piece above for my nonfiction class. My teacher wrote next to it with a purple pen, Beautiful, but why's it here? And then she asked me to take it out of my essay. 
The truth is, I only put it in there because I wanted to. It had no point. It was supposed to have no point. 
She thinks I should be a poet.
I think she's crazy.