Afternoons

And every morning she would drink the Sun and every night bask in the Moon and every afternoon not know what to do. She would get drunk of sunlight and rest in moonlight. But in the afternoon, in the waning of the sun and the rise of the moon she would not know what to do. Felt isolated. Confused. Stranger in her own skin. This was the worst time to tell her that I loved her. Cause she felt alien in her own body. This was the worst time to hold her. Cause she felt strange in her space. Daylight was her rejuvenation. Moonlight was her slumber. She drank rays like tequila and slipped into the warmth of the moon like bedsheets. These were the times to tell her “I love you” as I held her. Because she knew her skin and her space. Because she felt like herself. 

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