Sunblind

I’m in love with the Sun.

He’s a summer morning from forgotten childhood days,

The sunlight seeping through thin curtains,

My mother’s haggard hands meticulously put on display.

And walls once thought to be indestructible as Constantinople’s,

For Him, reveal themselves brittle as curtain lace.

A Renaissance painting, His golden hues

Cascade all over the canvas we’d made; Old cotton and mixed perfumes.

With a gentle hand, I trace each blot and stain,

And peer like a bright-eyed critic admiring Monet.

I bask in his sunlight, seek solace in the warmth He radiates,

He’s a star, He burns in my veins— an implosion boils, bound to take place.

Never enough, sunspots tainting my skin in a proud display,

Every discoloration a souvenir that leaves me yearning another summer’s day.

I’m in love with the Sun.

I’m in love with You.