You Forget the Sun

This is going to be a little different. I'm going to write until I can figure out what it was I was trying to say earlier.


You forget the sun. I mean, you forget what it looked like, what it made you think and feel, when you were young. Flames get stylized, thoughts so large it's like you're an inch away from a giant mural, get realized. They pass you by, but the rush from wind they leave sends you further than you were before. You can feel more. Now it's like novacaine, lost the mystery of the truename to the mundane. My name, in the mouth of someone who loves me, isn't letters, it's better. A brand of magic. It burns through that dull veneer, leaving that trailing mark in the dark and making you say: Everything gleams in here. But it's not. Photo after-images. Retina burn. Those sun spots are facsimile, a sketch of a knife cutting into me. Tasting that apple in a distant memory. It just doesn't feel the same.



I think that worked.