Syzygy.

It is widely known that we were nothing but scrumptious blood, stingily slithering down those emerald alleyways, recklessly flushing in rosy tint, as though our nacreous semblance on the heavens vowed to us. Just you listen to her shrewd and eerie words! She felt so much and showed so little. She, storyteller of vagaries, disclosed epistles in a language of her own, some of them so veiled, so cryptic, that the boldest words seldom kept pace with their downbeat. She whirled alongside tides, incessant, deathless wavers, staunchly hominifying a vicious circle of jaunty conundrums. Professedly abiding in a mischievous arpeggio, her charcoal eyes rebounded trances I wished could embrace me in perpetuum. And howbeit, it may have plainly comprised a bare nacre in the nightfall, casting virtuous osculations to the myriad of our race. But who was I to doom and rap a wrecking zeal as such? For it is the unsubstantial that enfolds our nips of magic. For grimaces like hers conform the axis to my maze. For she encloses mirrors I myself scope my face in. My Moon, my wraith, my queen. My second heart of dreams. 

Addah Monoceros.