Modern Brushstrokes

You say you love the warmth of the sun on your skin.

The way the all-encompassing rays of light

feed the foundations of your consciousness.

The way your skin absorbs

the ultraviolet rays,

and how they dance off the freckles of your forearms.

You take a long drag of your smoke and

tell me that I too am light.

But, I don’t melt you in the way the summer sun does.

Instead, I blindside you,

turn you inside out,

and leave you vulnerable with no place to hide.

You tell me the light is harsh on your eyes,

but painstakingly

beautiful nonetheless.

Like the subdued sun,

trying to frantically break through

a blanket of clouds on a winters day.

I nod in modest agreement,

just happy

you see some light in me.

But deep down, I know I am nothing like the sun.

For like the moon, I still shine even when I am in pieces.

Too Tired (Malta, 2019)