unlost

It's you, unlost. There's something about that ray of sunshine. The way it touches, lightly, my window glass, faltering before entering my home. Tentative and meek; I'd invite it in, but hesitate only for fear of thinking myself crazy.

Does sunshine feel loneliness? It travels ninety-three million miles across cold, barren space only to land on my arm, unnoticed at the best of times. Your words, not mine. I didn't have an answer for you then, but as I think about this patch of sunshine in my living room, it seems to glow warmer in appreciation. So now, nine years later, I answer: Yes, even sunshine feels loneliness.

I'm drinking coffee far too strong for a day like today. Is it too early to switch to bourbon? Thoughts of sunshine give way to memories of you: drinking Mint Juleps on the beach in summer, reading Eliot to one another in the cool shade of a cherry tree, walking down Cambie Street arguing about coffee in the warm afternoon. Each of those times, there was another there. Sunshine.

Does the sunshine bring with it, today, memories of you, or has it brought with it pieces of you? A vision of sunshine as an intangible embodiment of you fights with a vision of molecules riding waves of warm sunshine from you to me. Either way, it's you, unlost.