twirl butterflies into her hair and kiss an aching ode into sun-baked lips. kiss every freckle on her skin, every hickie - breathe into a constellation and add stars to it. swathe yourself in rose-gold wings and swear in ancient tongues that the stars don't drift - they spin.
paint wildflowers on her skin and press love into the palm of her hand. you swear you'll die kissing her, and you're okay with it. the ocean reflects in her irises and somehow her smile is brighter than any sunflower you've ever seen.
god, sunshine. lie down, stop being a tease.
but she is not just the sun- she is the moon. pain and pleasure. kindness and cruelty. they're intrinsically linked, and maybe a girl made of sunshine also has moondust on her skin. bend the knee for her, she pulls your hair back until you see spinning, spinning stars. pain tastes like eternity's gate and a sea reflecting in ice-bold eyes.
raw wrists, raw rope. you're sinners bleeding ichor but somehow you are a god now, a god who does things in the dark most people wouldn't see. but she does, and an earth-worn body like hers knows how to control - and to love.