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

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

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

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 belong elsewhere— Do not tempt me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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