Fear of Darkness, Fear of Day

Tara Kalle

I have a fear of darkness, so I follow the sun around the world, never letting the daylight go.
Sometimes she’s hard to keep up with, and trailing her light is extravagantly exhausting. Other
times she seems to move through the sky like a cloud heavy with rainwater. She’ll savor a
suburb, a city, or a small plot of land. Looking down at the people who never seemed to notice
her. Her beauty, her danger, or the unexpected rage of love she had for life and the living things
she had created. Molded, malleable with the warmth from her scorched hands. The sky blushes
with sunset and my heart drops into my stomach, like a sun would drop into the horizon if I’d
ever stay in one place. I race to catch up before darkness sinks in it’s tarred teeth. I jump over
oceans, stumble onto sandy beaches, I skip across coasts, and with hearty breaths, I reach her
first rays. She’s never guilty and never cares about my bleeding lungs, boiling skin, or eyes of
golden luster. As she stitches to the horizon, she lights up the day. For the first time, she’s too
bright. For the first time, I close my eyes. What is it like? It’s peaceful, but not like the light.
When I awake she’s gone. Packed her bags, and moved on. A shudder runs down my sunburned
back, while goosebumps form from a soft midnight breeze. She’s gone, left me behind, all I
know is devotion. I’m sunblind. I’ve never even seen ‘tomorrow’ there’s never been ‘yesterday.’
I’ve only lived a day, running after her is saving the day, saving the light, life, but no more, it’s
time to rest sore eyes and slowly sink into night. Heal my stary wounds with midnight rain and
brisk early morning mist. With bags under my eyes, a tip of a hat, and a weak wrinkly smile, I
pronounce, “Til tomorrow” and wave away into first dreams, first night.