It seems as if you come
at the right time
every Monday,
every Wednesday,
every Friday;
when the sun hits the windows perfectly
and the sunbeams cast spotlights
on the dust-mites dancing in the room.
Even the muddiness of my eyes
become filled with gold.

But maybe it isn't because of the sunlight.
Maybe it's because my eyes longed to imitate the light in yours.

*—S.C., March 12, 2014