We get tied up.
Our knots and tangles rise and fall,
Heaving. We fold our hands.
We press our heads together and we sit.

When the sun begins descending,
Though it never paused,
We feel more kinship with it
Than when it pours out heat at day.
Or withdraws its love at night.

When we sit like this,
All I hope is that you’ll forgive me.
I am not, after all, the sun.
I am not even its poor cousin
Who comes around begging for kindness.
My kinship with it is the same
As what I like to claim with Richard Feynman.
My so-called nobility, a bragging right.
When you love me, therefore,
It is just like this,
Like the sun descending.

But I love you
In a different way.
Like I love the sun,
At noon.
Pouring out its heat.