You are the sun.

You will not live in my memories as a cloudless summer day, or the time I first feel the ocean on my skin.

No, you are the day I got kicked in the chest by a horse. Scrambling across the ground clutching my screaming lungs, fighting for a scrap of air. Oh but the bruise was gorgeous. A tiny hoof print, like a horseshoe tacked just above my heart, only flipped upside down and drained of its luck.

You are the angry red scrape spread down the length of my back the day I tried to lower myself down easily, instead of risking fractured ankles from the fall.

I will remember you like I remember the burning heat of the shingles on the roof in summer. Searing the skin on the balls of my feet as I try to stay for as long as possible, just to drink in the evanescent freedom of being closer to the beating wings of the birds.

But I will not remember you like my first pile of autumn leaves. Nor will I remember you as the first mimosa bloom of spring. No.

You are the sun, burning my skin, turning my tongue to sandpaper. You are me, standing in the middle of the afternoon gazing up at sun just to feel it's warmth, all the while knowing it may burn away my eyes.