// You Are Not the Sun.
You’re not too good for me.
I used to swear you were,
tight roping between pride and anxiety,
showing off pictures.
—Yes, this is my girl!
But in the back of my mind I knew that
one day, you would wake up.
We are not the same.
You stub out cigarettes on your bare stomach
and think no one notices the scars,
and I lose my footing between shots of jack
and bury my fist in the wall.
I’ve met your friends.
We ate midnight dinners and laughed our way
through stupid movies
while you rested your head on my lower back;
your hair smelled like summer that night.
Your hair smelled like summer that night.
Your hair smelled like summer,
and I told myself you were the sun.
I don’t remember
when I realized
that you are not the sun,
but I’d already revolved all my planets around you.
One morning I woke up,
and your hair smelled like shampoo.
Your chin dug too sharply into my shoulders. One morning
that you had stopped giving off heat.
We became just another story.
I could reduce our relationship to five funny anecdotes,
starting with You’ll never believe the time that…
and Once, I dated a girl who…
It all ended so fast.
In retrospect, it didn’t end fast enough.
I don’t remember when I realized
that you are not the sun.
But one cloudy day I rolled over,
searching for light,
and all I found were your eyes closed against my pillow.
I like it better this way.