She was the day.
That inexplicable warmth that poured over my skin and melted away the frost that had collected in the shadows. Her eyes hid behind the curtains, glowing in peace― I, the inferior poet, call out to her. The melody of her laugh rings through the cage in my chest and raptures the sadness that silences my canary heart. It is a laugh that grows inside the Loved, it is rich and bathed in gold. The Sun holds her with high prestige, the trace of his fingers in her smile as she sang the hymns of his lyre. She’d sing the heaven’s part, and I must’ve cried, because that warmth returned to me through streaks over my cheeks. They burned my lips, like melting wax. It was an bitter taste I was willing to hold in my tongue ― she was too beautiful to look away.
She was the moon.
Her whispers tap along my window sill, promising she’ll be there soon. She wraps the covers around my trembling body and catches the tears that escape my eyes. She smells like ivory and rain, stardust still hanging off her eyelids as she recites to me her stories. She tells me about grand empires, the still waters from the North, and about sunflowers. Sunflowers that reach towards the heavens like giants, of their aurous petals that waved to you in the wind. They spanned through fields and sang lullabies in your ears, calling you to sleep among them and the Monarchs in the Sun. Her stories were as beautiful as her resplendent nature, however the Sunflowers always seemed to evoke some feeling in her that she couldn’t quite put into words yet. I never got to ask her why, she would always sing me to sleep with her berceuse.
She was a thunderstorm.
She tore herself apart one winter, the threads woven by Gods severed and cut like worn cloth. A breaking heart is quiet and cracks in odd places, she once told me. You lose pieces of yourself all over the place until you can’t remember where you’ve been. She became a shell, brooding over the things she muttered to herself. She never indulged with me anymore, the Sunflowers became a simple sketch hanging by cheap tape on my bedroom wall― and she, a shadow. I was not enough to raw her out of her misery, and the coup de foudre became a cloudburst. She was a torrent that washed away the following morning, leaving a moorish sidewalk that smelled like soaked dirt. This was the last time.
I searched for her.
I hiked up mountains and stumbled through the steepest valleys. My feet trudged through slick mud, pungent grass, and gentle lilies. I followed the edge of twilight, in that pink and blue that spilled over the horizon. In the night, I recited the epics she portrayed during summer evenings. During the day I sang for the lilies that swoon over my footsteps and danced with the rushing streams. Through empires of trees and mazes of rivers, this was my July, within the eos and under the hue of the crepuscular light. After days of walking, a Sunflower towered over the Horizon to greet me.
The meadow was barren, save for that single flower. It’s brothers were woven into the dirt, yet it gazed upon the Sun as he scoured the sky, his face as big as the palm of my hand.
I closed my book of epics and hymns, taking the golden ribbon that held together the threads of my soul and tied it around its long stalk. The land was silent and dull, save for a gleam of light that sprang music across the air. Those soft lullabies that whispered from her lips reached my ears on the wind. It moved among the blades of grass and pushed against the petals, like a God’s gentle brush of the hand. A subtle and sweet goodbye from her grace.
The lyrics, simple poetry, rang from the lips of the ephemeral day:
“Bright, bright, does she love. She is the day, my moon, and all my storms. Bright, bright, does she love. Like the beat of a bird once caged, she leaves me with the canary’s song. How sweet it sounds.”