“The Sun in the Palm of My Hands”

I met him when he was as timid as a church mouse; his “hello” barely broke above a whisper. Then evolution took over and each year he spoke a little louder. Each year he flourished until all I could see was his back. I raced to keep up, the scent of his wake hanging on my clothes and hair. I knew of no other way to endure his esteem than to lift him up into the boundless sky, as far and high as I could reach until he hung there to keep pace with the geometry of the sun.

Then I bent under the glare of his ambition, burned by its radiance. I threatened to turn my eyes with a pair of sunglasses. He couldn’t hear my communication. His eyes were fixed on the mountains, his heart always moved west. I gathered up my covetousness and chased my idol beyond my own tolerance.


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