Stories of the Sun.

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You won’t raise your voice at me and no matter what you talk to me as cool as the breeze at around 7 pm on a Sunday. Your demeanor says you refuse to intimidate my gentle heart, so you refrain. You yelled once, one time since I’ve known you and you saw my eyes swell so big with tears you apologized with kisses and sour patches, because you know I always laugh at the “first they’re sour then they’re sweet” commercials and I forgave you. Every time we walk somewhere you grab my hand like you’re guiding a child and I eagerly follow you because you know I have the “most days I have no idea where I’m going but I just go” type of life, and you always tell me a little structure won’t hurt. I’m always giggling and you’re always thinking business but even deep in thought you can’t help but smile at my perplexed faces. You never leave your papers sitting out because you know as soon as an idea hits me I grab the first loose leaf in site, and you had to learn that the hard way. One day I sat in the yard playing peak a boo with the sun and as you sat in the window and read, you could barely focus because I was just so happy. So you came out and sat right beside me and after staring at me for at least 5 minutes you asked: “How is it that the sun looks at you like a childhood friend?” I stared directly back into your beautiful brown eyes and said: “Because two things I’ve always kept open are my blinds and my heart, so from the day I opened my eyes the Sun knew it would never be a stranger.” And all you could do was smile at your Sunflower born hippie. 

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