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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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