They say following the sun is truly a journey of conviction. A stead-fast walk— where this warmth resides.

I belong elsewhere— Do not tempt me.

Sundays were never mine, in design or desire. They are half-warm, half-true. And I never learnt to play.

I must learn to be gentle –contempt eye rolling mockery. I love you for how you drink two gallons

There are pieces of the sun fragmented in all of us.

I often try to carry this solace, and just like when we take ourselves off when we are sad,

She is the sun, —Unforgivingly, Achingly bright. To linger is to blister and blind.

blueness, bluer than you or me blues in the morning in the evening

The pursuit of light is a pilgrima… A resolute march towards gilded ho… To follow the sun is to chase cons… To linger for brilliance unbroken. Yet, even the sun is not endless.

To me, we are both lonely. I sit comfortably with silence. Let it braid itself into

This casual “hey,” is too heavy for me, to hold with one hand. A dense weight pressing down. Invisible,

I do not pray. I believe in this hum. The static between fingertips. How the sadness

It’s really is a most foolish belief, an assurance of regret even. To think that we will one day

You collect people like loose buttons. Sew them into yourself before breakfast. Still, you fray.

A rich start in the city, same old daughter, just a touch less pretty. You play your games with me, your version of hide and seek.