he takes the sun's hand and reads them like braille—
tells him that they're lonely, touch-starved, been living like this for as long as they can remember.
breathing hurts, the sun says, when every part of you is on fire. when the world rests on your shoulders. when you're the light everyone wishes for.
the sun says, how about you?
he says, what about me?
the sun: you must have a story.
and he inhales, burning in his lungs as he says: i'm here because you're here.
(the sun is no longer lonely after, smiling like they mean it, given a purpose for all that it's worth.)