Sun to me..
I look at him, and the world holds its breath-
the kind of stillness that only exists
before the sun slips behind the trees.
His laughter spills like honey,
slow and golden, coating everything it touches.
His eyes-green, but not just green-
more like moss when it catches fire,
light bending through him,
turning ordinary air into something holy.
With him, breathing feels like worship.
The air softens.
The noise quiets.
It's easy-
like the first inhale after rain.
Like grass beneath my back,
and the sun spilling through the branches,
finding me, warming me,
turning my skin into something living again.
He's my sun.
But even suns burn.
Even light hides behind clouds too long.
He's only this bright when the bottle glints in his hand,
when smoke curls like halos around his head.
His joy is borrowed,
rented from the things that ruin him.
And I love him anyway-
every version,
every ache.
When he's sober,
I see the man beneath the wreckage,
the boy behind the armor.
He tries-
oh, he tries-
and I catch the smallest flicker
of who he could be
if the world didn't hurt so much.
I hold him like a prayer I can't finish,
his heartbeat pressed against mine,
a rhythm of almosts and maybes.
In sleep, he's innocent again-
a child I never knew
but somehow still remember.
In those moments,
I mother the boy inside the man
and love the man who forgot how to stay.
He's my sun-
even when he scorches me raw,
even when my skin cracks
from reaching too close.
And still, I turn toward him,
again and again,
because he's warmth,
and I'm the field that forgives the fire.
I am his home,
and he, forever,
is my sun.
