soooo i saw some art on instagram the other day and it was of this girl holding the sun and i was immediately just like.... i need to write something abt this.
BUT I CAN'T FIND THE ARTWORK AGAIN???? i wish i saved it or shared it to myself or something but alas, i did not :(
also "space girl" by frances forever was stuck in my head again while writing this so that had some influence on this piece lmao
well anygays i hope you like this one bc i love it <3 (well, i loved it last night but the perfectionist in me that wakes up when it's daytime doesn't love it as much but this poem is still my imperfect child so pls be kind haha)
---
she took the sun
into her hands
and never burned,
only her hair was caught
by the ancient, ever-burning fire,
and it glowed down her back,
not a single strand scorched.
(i remember how she held me,
like i was a planet she had never encountered before,
and she has been to every solar system, every universe.
i remember how i glowed like moon rock beneath her touch,
and my once-buried, dug-up hurt
didn't burn her healing hands
like it burned everyone
who ventured too close.)
she took the sun
into her hands,
and finally the sun felt
what it's like
to bask in another's warmth,
to have someone's smile
warm your face
and have small rising and settings
of suns
in your cheeks.
(when i'm with her,
the suns unapologetically blooming
in my face
never fade,
the blush deepening
with every igniting touch
and soft kiss of laughter.)
she took the sun
into her hands,
because
like calls to like,
and i see her
in the sunlight
draping itself across the city
like it's the artist and the paint and the canvas
all at once
and there's no denying
who she is.
the ones we love
are the stars
we have wished upon—
they are shooting stars
not because of the way
they barrel through the sky,
cutting through the night
to reveal day's light behind it,
but because they are the stars
that fall from their constellations;
our wishes have the power
to bring down celestial beings
if we're yearning,
desperate,
devastated.
sometimes all we hold is a wish
at the end of the day,
and wish molded into a dream
fluttering behind eyelids
during slumber,
and when the dawn throws open
the curtains,
it's molded into rich, dewy hope,
and hope is a fervent, human force
not to be reckoned with.
shooting stars—
they are the stars
that have been shot down
to live with us,
here on the gritty ground.
is it so hard to believe?
after all,
love has always been
out of this world,
unexplainable,
starry-eyed.
love,
mari