You call me sunshine
and there are days I'd believe it,
but others I don't.

When my mind is so cloudy
I can't think at all
or when I process far too much
and it clashes in thunderous claps,
or when my tears block my view,
pouring, dribbling into its final trickle,
you say it.
How could you call me sunshine then?

You mean to say that behind all that,
nothing changes?
Surely an object cannot be an object if its properties change.

Yet you have the audacity to say otherwise,
that I can still be sunshine even when the night has fallen,
and the stars take my place,
because who else would illuminate the moon had it not been true?

So maybe I'll believe you.