Given to me like the rays of sunshine in his hands
Like golden water dripping through his fingers
Leaving crimson trails across his bone-white skin
I can't hold onto sunshine because it falls through my grip
Like I'm not meant to have it.
It's yours, he says, but it doesn't matter if it's mine.
It's yours, he repeats, and I want to tell him I can feel the weight of his words even as his voice grows softer.
When I look at my hands and I can't tell whose they are
(Crimson and gold scattered across them)
I'll hold onto sunshine if it means that I can keep what is yours.