Sunlight

All summer you were with me.
My face darkened, the light

peach walls glowed when
you entered my room.

You were persistent, kept me up
later each evening, wanted me

each moment to notice.
Sometimes you were too much.

Sometimes I wanted to
turn off the light. Now

I’ve gotten what I asked for.
You’ve turned yourself away.

Elizabeth Wilson is a tap dance enthusiast, chronic illness advocate, and Rising Voices of Narcolepsy speaker living in the North Carolina mountains. Her poems have appeared in 13th Moon, Asheville Poetry Review, Clementine Unbound, and Cold Mountain Review.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Sunlight

  1. K. Greene says:

    Stunning piece.

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