sun
i.
mama said i can
never look straight up at you.
beauty like that hurts
the eyes. yet, you still kiss me
gently—no explanation.
ii.
you ask for nothing,
give just a little too much.
sometimes your kiss glows
bright pink, often the skin burns
right off. quien como la flor.
iii.
i think i want to
be adored like that: fully
and without shame. to
turn towards my lover as
flowers turn towards the dawn.
iv.
when i fantasize
about a particular
pair of eyes, your light
is ever present, caught in
the brown, the brows, the lashes.
v.
i’ve learned to bury
myself in daydreams like you
hide in clouds, finding
faces where there are none, lov–
ing the ambiguity.
vi.
all that substanceless
white, your fingers breaking through.
people mistake you
for god when you do that—warm,
piercing, kaleidoscope-like.
vii.
it must be lonely,
burning above it all, bright
against the pale blue,
caressing summer lovers,
knowing yours is in the dark.
viii.
at night, when you’re gone,
she appears. a ghost of your
glow, bone white. i miss
you then. your heat, that summer
when life felt cinematic.
ix.
and i tried to love
like you, so warm i’m not for–
gotten, not when i
sink into the horizon,
dragging my colors behind.