I speak not of the sun neither speak to her for the winter it has left in my care. My conversations with the cold snap and the polar vortex had gone stale.
The sun and I had our falling out and if these words should find their way to her doorstep, let her know I don't miss her warmth. I don't leap out of the bed to tug the curtain and let her silver light fill my room and let the motes dance in her rays like I used to.
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