I prayed for the Sun and the Sun came. It came every single morning.
It comes at 7:30 am, it's golden hue waking the city from its slumber. In the Sun, grey buildings suddenly stand as glistening masterpieces; in the Sun, people are quicker and quirkier. Everyone is alive. I feel so alive.
We count the days that we see Her. It's Saturday and She hasn't left.
Blankets and baguette in hand. Laughter, lightness and the luring scent of gouda. We're running down Le Pont Marie, eagerly searching for a space to set up our party. There's music, warmth and friends: the key ingredients to making this moment last longer.
5pm hits- it's the golden hour.
We inch closer to that spot. The spot at which we become someone's muse for poetry. There's Sun in our hair, in our eyes, on our skin. Isabelle poses for the golden selfie. Sophie's auburn hair dances lightly in the silhouette. Oliver T sings. Oliver H salsas. And there's Nieve, who has just coyly cast her eyes upon the young man who writes poetry about her brown eyes and bronze skin. She's his muse.
The party is packing away the picnic and zipping up their jackets. It's getting dark as the heat fleets off the grass we sit on. The poet disappears, the music draws to a pause. I hold the empty bag which once held fresh loaves of baguette. I look around to see the cheese being tossed into a plastic bin. There's a sudden emptiness in the air as we part ways to burrow beneath heavy blankets in our artificially-heated homes. The Sun goes to sleep and so do we.
At night, we dream about a day when She never leaves.