Experimental Writing #3

UV radiation travels hundreds of millions of miles and kisses me.

He is the only thing that kisses me. He caresses my virgin lips, heating them at mid-day. He dances upon my freckled skin, he tickles my untied hair, he dyes me in his orange hues.

My mom says he’s no good for me. She insists upon sunblock, a shield between my body and his, a protective barrier I do not desire. She gives me hats, she offers me shawls, slips, pieces of flimsy fabric that prevent him from heating me to my inner organs

I love him.

The sun leaves in the winter, taking him with it. They travel to a different part of the world yearly and I,  I wait. As the summer comes, I run to his embrace, each day spent suffused in him.

I throw caution to the wind. I ignore the words of others.

I am young. Sunburns mean nothing. Blisters mean nothing. Cancer means…

It means something, but I won’t get it! Because I am young and he loves me and the future is mine to grab. Love triumphs all, after all, or something like that.

Me and UV, we are close at thirteen. The earth warms and he becomes more present and we are happy. Happy.

Together forever, with him breathing upon my shoulders every time I step outdoors, every time the curtain is shifted, every time the outside steps in.

Together. Forever.


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