He makes me feel yellow-- not like I’m sick, like I’m warm. We all get the sun, but I get him, which I know is better.
People say better be careful, yellow can turn red, do you truly know him? I say you don’t know warm when it touches you. Heat him up, and he’s still a gentle sun.
Look how he rises for me, my sun, how he touches my cheek, better than anything you call soft. It’s him, it’s always been, yellow in his left eye, so warm. I want to marry him—this fact I know.
How can you know, you’re too young... The sun stops for no one, the warm slap will hit a last time, no better than a dream in yellow. I will out-maneuver time with him.
With him, I will know the world—every bit of yellow in the fall leaves, in the sun that shines through dirty glass. Better for it all, somehow more warm.
As it stands now, warm isn’t easy. We are young, him and I. Young but better for that youth, better because we know that we are still glorious, sun- drenched creatures, souls loud and yellow. I will warm him yellow, we will better the sun-- these facts I know.
Aleah Dye (she/her) primarily writes poetry, tending towards topics of morbidity, love, social justice, and philosophy. She is dreadfully afraid of imperfection and spiders, in no particular order. She has a one-eyed cat named Ivy and a one-track-minded (food!) cat named Rosebud. Aleah hopes to make hearts grow three sizes with her words. She is a 2020 Sundress Publications Best of the Net nominee. Read her latest work via Another New Calligraphy, The Daily Drunk, and TART Magazine. Follow her @bearsbeetspoet on Twitter.