The Sun and the Sky

Morning dawns.

No longer is she endless, empty;

no longer does she blanket those

who rest their souls below.

Wave after wave, his warmth seeps

from his fingertips to her cheeks

flushed with colors of oranges and pinks.

She trembles, surrenders.

He reigns over her, this now beautiful girl,

the encasement of the world.

Thin streaks of gold, incandescent

bleed across her empty canvas.

The chill of the night unable to resist

the warmth of the sun so intense

from the cold damp of midnight

to the overpowering passion of noon.

Take him back, his presence hovers

the stars sleep in her hungry eyes

and his fire burns in her bosom.

Night falls.

Agony seeps from loving handprints:

remnants of his beautiful, fiery grip;

colors of pink, purple, and red

across her delicate flesh and

Earth is showered in her sadness.

Again, she is the endless, the empty.

Once more, she only blankets those

who rest their souls below

though she herself suffers the cold.

Wave after wave, his warmth depletes,

and in his absence, though she cannot see

she is just as beautiful without him,

just as beautiful as the black, rolling sea...

And if it weren’t for her, he could never, ever be.