not the same one at all, but a sun nonetheless.
On a bright morning or gray weekday afternoon,
take it out,
place it on the cafe table between you and your friend.
Feel the hum inside your head;
the tears that come without reason.
"What if we are only figures inside a snow globe?" you ask.
Your friend shakes her head, turns away,
opens her mouth but doesn't speak.
You're an idiot. Again.
An idiot carrying a small dark sun around in her bag,
on the bus,
queering the traffic signals as you pass underneath.
That was a long time ago, now.
You and your friend cast two shadows in those days,
so substantial and fine that they might have danced away on their own.
At night you dream of geologists
breaking their teeth by biting into geodes.
You call someone.
"I didn't sleep well."
Here is a sun to toy with, to set down and forget.
Calls end, days go on and on,
the sky fills with birds no one can identify.
Your head hums,
Nobody asks why.