My hands are blessed to have touched the sun

It’s cold and in the winter I wilt.

I’m overwhelmed and longing and afraid. I miss you. God, I miss you.

I am remembering the ways in which I’m weakest. I am fighting to hold tight to the absolute certainty of how much better I am with you. Love is not loss and heartache and pain. Love is good and kind and gentle. You are. I love you. Every day. When I don’t like you. When I don’t like myself. You are a choice I’ll make again and again.

It’s cold and in the winter I wilt. In the winter, I am alone. In the winter, I break and I burst so that I might be reborn.

With you, I am bright spring whites, crisp and smart and sharp. With you, I am glowing autumn orange, fiery, reminiscent of a moment you’ll never quite pinpoint. With you, I am the sweltering cotton candy pink of summer evenings, lingering just half an hour longer, alive with fireflies at the last splash of sunlight.

With you, I am alive and well.

Sun Hands — Local Natives

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