i feel like i’ve been living next to sunsets all my life
and all the gold has made these eyes succumb
to cravings of a background hushed,
embossed in yellow canvas, where
that familiar sight overshone; where shores
had in deepest black suppressed their glow
in favor of routine and spinning earth around a friend—
still, the sun must sleep, and when
the sun has nowhere to go, when
even its all-encompassing arms would
fold and pray to save it from dark
and cold — and thinking that the moon should follow,
its borrowed light amidst a travesty — it hearkens back
to mountain peaks and brittle mounds and
sands that stretched for miles,
and when it does, i will be certain that
i have already lost you
and i’d think it a fantasy, if not for you,
who felt like living next to sunsets, too,
and may have surmised that i craved not for that star.
but if one craves for healing, is one not scarred?
if one craves for peace, is one not at war?
— A. P.