Your eyes are more than meritable, finding warmth in mine. It’s all part of an illusion consuedudinal of time, of ondes, of palmar remnants that have sought me, carrying no blame. Deep sighs are accompanied by heavy touch in waves upon my back. I’m an insensate thing when all I can do is focus on the difference it makes when I remove my tinted rims and place them back on my face. The pattern is a ritual, (and my friend, it is not.) For when most people seek to shield their eyes, I seek the sun to countermine the celestial bodies on my face. And this is how I love myself. It’s inadequate, and reprobate, and I’ll be damned if I allow this light to give me a genial sort of warmth when my flesh craves so deeply to combust. These wants are ratified, for all people want to feel alive, even if that means feeling pain. So, I’ll hold your petty disparagements right up to the moon, in the hopes she will ebb away the preface of the melody of sadness.