At first I thought I missed the sun.
My icy pale skin is so accustomed to grey.
Grey and blustery wind. Soggy socks in squelchy shoes.
I would angrily mourn aloud, “how I yearn for the hot touch of a ray of golden sun, my sun has abandoned me”.
Today it was sunny.
Clear blue as far as the eye could see, or at least as far as grey urban would allow.
I spotted two wisps of white, streaked across the still sky, left there by two bygone planes.
Every song bird had waited for a proper spring day for fortnights now, and this was their chance to perform.
They took the sun’s heat and made it theirs.
So why couldn’t I? Why was I not beaming back at the hot light?
Instead, I messily dripped cold purple nostalgia, leaving a trail wherever I went.
Passers by looked at me, clearly annoyed.
Why is she still sad?
Look, the sun triumphs and she has the audacity to leave this mess of melancholy after her, for everyone to see.
All I could do was return them a pleading apologetic look, and carry on my way.
At midday I slept, exhausted with disappointment, only to wake up swimming in crimson and lilac and violet nostalgia.
It was getting worse. I took myself outside to sit on the garden wall, teary-eyed.
Although it was only 7°C, I forced myself to sit there in a T-shirt, determined to purposely feel every single ray that landed on my skin.
I almost willed the surrounding rays on me as well, but not quite.
“You were supposed to make everything better” I sobbed. “I was sad in your absence, why doesn’t your presence fill my heart?”
The birds laughed. Silly girl, shon the sun.
One cannot depend on the heat of others to stay warm.
What do you think your heart is for? And the nostalgia turned yellow. And I breathed a sigh of relief.
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