AIMEE TACON

I think the Sun is an angel.

She told me so herself, as she offered up a secret kiss between cupped hands.

I believe her, because the longer I look, the more my eyes burn, and yet – I cannot look away.

I am the Moon and she exists in plane I cannot reach, no matter how desperately I try.

I watch her – quietly, fervently. I am not alone.

The Sun must belong to Leo, I think, as I watch its daughters race after her beauty, hands cast towards the sky.

I am just a shadow among them, following along with their giggles.

At least they can bask in her warmth.

Instead, I wait in prayer for twilight, when neither Sun nor Moon exist and we are only

two girls

suspended in time

looking up in wonder at frozen dewdrops.

Here, she can be the golden air I blow on my cold fingers, the fire that crackles at my feet.

Does the Moon ever look at the Sun like this?

Does it imagine how sweet she would taste, trembling beneath its fingers?

If I was to feel the full force of her smile, would I have to look away?

She has rendered me blind anyway. I have died and been reforged in the crucible of her desire, again and again.

Then, all of a sudden

a small movement

the crux

a change in the air

and it is over. I am unrecognisable to myself, a mirror once again – the Moon to her Sun.

She is so, so beautiful.

And she is far too bright to look at.