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

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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