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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

I am almost someone, you were waiting for. I seek forgiveness hoping you may recall what I have long since forgotten.

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

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

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.

I should live by the sea. Silence this noise. I should like to be still, to quiet my temper, to breathe.