I've always been sensitive to the sun
| And after three months of stolen glances and electric shocks from your fingertips, we strolled along our faithful path with a brick's length between us. The desire I craved for you was a faint string of force today, your dimples didn't reach your eyes when I made a joke. The butterflies in my stomach must have left as did your appetite for the ice cream in your hand.
And after hours of debating whether the sun would sacrifice its power to allow the moon to be set free, you filled the silence with a common indirection of our relation:
"How's the weather?"
And I stated my case:
"I've seen better days."
And we parted ways with the realization that the sun was too centered in the universe to sacrifice for the moon. Yet it still dies every night to let its love breath. To fill the lives of others while it leaves the moon toiled in darkness and bathed in grey. How lucky am I to have been struck by reality before becoming another crater in the love-consumed depression blinded by the light.