When the blinds are shut

(From the perspective of the sun to a lonely woman)

Do you know what it feels like

to be omni-present and invisible, at the same time?

To be the center of the universe,

and have blinds shut to you?

I imagine it to be like God.

You can’t pray to me only when you are grieving,

you know.

When you look bitterly upon your childhood

you pretend like you don’t remember the soccer games,

or the smile and sweat of summer,

how I held you at your grandparents’ house

in Florida on winter breaks.

I know you remember that.

After the dead-dark of February, I always

remembered you.

And here you are, again, forgetting.

I may be the smallest star in the universe but

I shine just the same for all the times

you’ve raised your glass to me,

closed your eyes, given your body, laughed

in my presence, just because.

You may feel like the smallest woman

in the universe, sometimes, but

someone will still raise their glass to you, count

on you being here tomorrow like sunrise,

want you with them like I was —

on your shoulders in the mountains in Morocco,

in your eyes on the water in Denmark,

during the golden hour in the park in Boston,

going down over the terrace in Spain.

Don’t think I don’t rise for you,

even when you feel like the darkness is just too much, know

that I will break the day for you

like I did at the funeral,

after the break up,

last Christmas,

during that fight,

the time you said goodbye,

at the end of every good thing.

I’ll always come back for you.


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