When they ask you to,

you turn on a fluorescent bulb:

an artificial mockery of healing light


but not alive like flame

or stars

(which are only flame anyways, I suppose)


The alive of the light

coems soft and warm

from sunbursts and sunbeams and sunlight

when you open up the sunroof

and I feel it warm my face

my smile


Stars are flame

the sun is a star

the sun is alive

the sun is infectious

a viral light


When people wear sunglasses,

I wish that they wouldn't

or didn't

or couldn't


Instead, I thank you

for letting all the light

into the room of tinted windows

that I've been given

to live in.

This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741