Love Letter to The Sun
by Ittai Payne
I have never been one for the sun.
It is blinding, blistering, and yet you soften my enmity quicker than the wax that fastens my feathers.
For you are not the sun, but you were forged from it. as though the clouds parted, and I saw you stepping from the silken gray. A million freckles that paint your face, eyes spun of gold, and yet I’d have done anything to fervently run my hands through your hair of fire.
Suddenly, I am aware of my indigence. Like a deaf man hearing prayer for the first time, I drink in your warmth and light. The desire to carve my name with my tongue, so that I may be the only one to know how divinity tastes. How could I ever question my serendipity?
I am no angel, but Icarus, as I’d strike down a hundred of them just to create wings.
With my stolen holiness, god would whisper to me, it is sin.
As I soar to you from the muds of earth, with each beat disintegrating into flurries of white—If it meant a glance at your effulgence—I will tell him, forgive me. For it will not be him that strikes me down that day,
it will be you, and the softened wax will smell of sugar.