The last light you see when you close your eyes

It is when I realize that you are the sun, and that I,  the most distant star in your galaxy, can still see you with your fervent burning glow...clearly.  Warming, brilliant, exclusive and constant.

while you, even while squinting to discern me from the great distance, can barely detect my faint light.  I fall cold upon you...and perhaps I don't even fall at all from what you can tell.

The stir of a stray stand of hair...perhaps I am just a breeze that barely pulses against you.

Every night a moon will rise, whether crescent or full, waning or waxing.  But it is when we notice...it is when it catches our eye.  It is almost always the same exact distance, causing tides to rise and fall.  But it looks differently in its cycles...sometimes it is almost beautiful, low on the horizon, orange and looming.  I am the moon, the constant but changing...forever far but occasionally close.  I rise and fall in a black evening, and many times I am not the brightest.  Rather, I take my place in the constellations that surround you, oftentimes they are way brighter...relegating me to a slight light that you can detect...maybe see.  I don't know, for in the vast emptiness where no light is brighter than another, I cannot be sure of the last light you will see when you close your eyes.

But you.

God you.

You are the Sun.  The impermeable.

You light up the hallways and the mornings.  The closed doors with space behind...creeping in behind cracks and crevices.  You cannot be shut out.  You begin and you end but the absence of you remains as a presence...a want.  A craving.

You remain unfiltered, despite distance.  Despite weather and patterns.  You remain constant and transfixed.  Awakening in the dark I know you will appear, just like if I awake to a quiet and tranquil mind I know you will soon emerge...dragging me into the daylight like a memory of you pulls me out of a sleep.  Sometimes refreshing, sometimes alarming.  You burn into my brain as I try to rub my eyes out into a morning.

Morning.  The beginning of a day.

Mourning.  A lamenting of an end.

Your sun, your light shines regardless...leaving me to interpret if you are a beginning or an end.

Me, the moon, always returning but sometimes less and sometimes more depending on the day.

You, always brilliant, always golden.  The sun.  Never waxing, never waning.

I fear that I watch you descend at the end of the day and that I am over, vanquished.

I wait...I hope...pray, for your return and that you alight in the few hours when I am not just dreaming about you and you indicate that yes, you are real.

I wonder what is the last light you see when you close your eyes.