Sunlight, like fresh honey-
thick and sticky with love-
moments, like fragments suspended
in ancient amber-
frozen in that stillness-
as pure as they were the second they
were entombed-
yes, sunlight shifts-
but its heat remains-
it will always return to cast its
heat so intense that if often burns-
it burns, but I have yet to feel its
the rays are often shadowed by clouds,
you see-
the wound is mine, yet I never
made the cut-
how then does it stitch itself?
that sunlight, rich and dense-
is haunting-
it taunts the heart that beat its
how then, will it stitch itself?


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