THE SUN CAME OUT ON THE DAY OF LOVE

for the first time in weeks. The LED destination signs
flashing from my university’s transit buses read Happy
Valentine’s Day!
as they picked up and dropped off
baggy-eyed college students from Point A to B. I saw
a boy in uniform stumble off the platform and nearly
flat on his face, arms filled with rainbow bouquets.
I almost cried at his grand gesture, that blooming
determination. I forgot how long it had been since
I last felt the warm sun kissing my face in this city.
Weeks, probably. Noticing its tender rays meeting
the apples of my cheeks and feeling as close to heaven
as first love. The sun came out on the day of love
and I felt like a blind man finding the outlines of life
previously unknown to him. Couples sprawled out
under sturdy oaks in the dead of February. I folded
construction paper down the center, traced half
a shape, and cut along the lines. How perfect this
world feels when we have great loves worth chasing,
celebrating, the timeless stuff that fills the heart,
expanding and contracting, inwards and outwards.
I wish every afternoon could feel like this, sugar cubes
melting on the tongue, chocolate induced tummy
aches, pink lipstick hearts plastered on your skin.

The sun came out on the day of love
and this is all I need to believe in it again.

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