the sort of.
He builds things.
Like we have lived in this synergy for most of our lives. He builds and I break. He builds again and I break again. And the last time…he did not build. He watched as I tore down and fought with myself to stop when I knew it was enough, but I continued and he knew that this was the end.
We were suns when we met. Unbeareble heat emanating from our pores and the other bodies in the room could feel it. They saw us burning our way through the crowds until we finally met each other in the centre of the room. We should have never stood that close to each other. We should have left room enough for a cooling wind or possibly a moon to block us from each other.
One sun is enough for the earth — I think God knew that the sun could not share its sky — it needed to shine alone. That when it rose to its highest peak it could not be ignored. That it knew only how to stand out and be felt. And in a union — there must be a moon and a sun — and the stars watch them dance.
Yet, here we were — in the centre of the room. Two suns sharing a sky.
He spoke first and I knew he was the type of sun that everyone who had not lived in a country along the equator- enjoyed. The type of sun that British people take off their clothes and bask in as soon as a it revealed itself. He was nice.
I looked at his lips as they formed the second part of nice introduction. A strong name. Stron meaning. One that usually meant he might have been the first born. His shoulders looked responsible — lol. The kind of shoulders you know have carried weight and never complained. His eyes danced over my face — in a sort of surprise but a sort of stolen indulgence. I saw him fighting himself — knowing that we were too close and that this was not how God had designed us — no two suns were meant to share a sky —h e knew it but if our skies collided that night — we would not mind.
They did.
They collided.
And we let them.
For a short while — the stars were silent. The wind did not cool us down and let the heat be. We were. My sun was hot and temperamental. His sun was steady and welcoming. It settled on your skin and you knew that you were loved. My love did not have time to let you settle in — it swallowed you whole. Took over your senses and allowed itself to be led by its passion — it burned.
And so after we had sort of adjusted to each other’s heat. made room for both our skies to exist. Simplified our emotions for the other to understand - we fell in and out of our love.
When the sky is darkest — when it is dark and silent — it forces upon you an inner silence. It forces you to allow time to continue and leave you fixated upon a particular moment and it forces you to notice yourself and how you were no longer yourself.
You are sort of happy but not.
You are sort of content but not.
You are sort of yourself but not.
The sky grew dark quickly.
Time moved.
We stood still.
Attempting to remember the moment our suns had burned towards one another and we had allowed them. When we had decided to share our skies as the highest act of sacrificial love and commitment.
We should have never made room for each other.
His temperement that was sort of hot but also cool — angered my hot always hot one. I did not need to take time out and think about how I felt — I needed to speak it out and if my words burned, I would apologise for them with the same heat and passion. I was never sort of mad but sort of placid. I was the extreme of all my feelings.
I burned.
He thought.
He considered everything with a careful annoyance. He was crippled by his constant consideration of everything that even when he reached his peak moment in our skies he never really allowed himself to burn.
For a while. This was ok. We called it balance.
I would burn. He would consider my burn and placate me with memories of the first time we met. Of why we had been drawn to each other. And like that, he would fix what I had broken - when I had attempted to burn it down. Break it.
On the day that I knew that I could not share a sky — I, burning at my highest as always, tried to remember the moment we had gravitated towards one another — and for the first time I did not only see him in the room — but I saw the others in the room. I was no longer drawn to his sun. I saw him beyond the initial attraction of warmth after a long winter.
And this final breaking was the seperation of two skies that should have never collided.
