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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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