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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I belong elsewhere— Do not tempt me.

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.

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

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.

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