Sun

It must have been the 3rd or 4th question after we ordered drinks. He asked why I wore sunglasses on my head even in the middle of winter. This was our 4th or 5th date and the only repeating motif besides the blushing shared silence. I brushed his knuckle, drew the church my grandpa and I kneeled in every summer day, how the sun chameleoned through stained glass, the old man's pressed eyes twenty women chanting god down into country soil with their wails, and so yes my plastic shades a smaller cathedral my hair a softer sacrament.

Each ray unfurls wasteful ties on the pavements. A global fabric shivers, survival scoffs delays. Grey clock face marked afternoon. The empty cafe refuses speeches of inked chairs. Light dissolves instead of concrete speeches. A shadow trail animates the sidewalk. I follow it without knowing where it sets out again. Once the light was simple as a syllable. Today a comet crosses my breath. Sun doesn't only fall with sparks but prevaricates my tongue. And when evening imposes its dark the pupils still keep warm light. That is where I find you.