either some days end a little earlier or that the sun stays up and sets more slowly
on days like this: warm, gently spread out rays
golden
hitting closed eyes and flushed cheeks and coffee-soaked lips
it’s almost the end of yet another revolution, which is simply like a day, only a tad longer
longer to the silly children of the universe who think time is real and that it is linear
in an attempt to make sense of that which has none
because there should be, right? data and patterns and logic—universal!
why would anything be unknown if it’s all been the same, generations after another
the sun goes up and then down. after which is nighttime. and sleep.
then again
why is it that few words and bytes are occupied by thoughts which one has
as the sun tenderly meets one’s skin, one quiet afternoon after a long day
or similarly, as the earth’s star gracefully melts the dark and colours the sky at dawn
yet of darkness and missaid utterances and summer days that burn
and drowning in waves and empty night skies and drought and pain and emptiness—
countless, too many
someday, it is going to run out of hydrogen and collapse, taking all of life with it
and the heavens will make noise to weep the destruction it caused
because few remember its tireless care: day in and day out, on the dot
only how it burned too harshly on days they didn’t want it
or hid when it would have been nice to get a tan
but it makes sense, doesn’t it?
of course, they notice when it’s not right, it’s easy to feel when it’s too much or too little
and when it’s just right—soothing, calming, all the words for pleasurable—
nothing
and it passes. all the same
today when the sun was up it was smiling