I was raised by the sky

When summer turns to fall I dwell on the ones I love. I dwell; knowing that I have not yet met all the ones I will love in this lifetime. I situate myself on the crevice of pleasure and longing and nostalgia and despair.

If the ones I love sit on the crevice of a cliff and watch the sun go down, do we become birds floating in the sky; cawing and crying for a home? Do we become whales at sea; taking the same path our ancestors have for generations?

When I hear the ocean’s water move through the mossy cave below—when I feel the hot sun turning my body warm and wet—I remember that this is the same sun that raised me when I was seven, twelve, nineteen, and twenty-three. This is the same sun that warms my lovers in Chicago, cradles my soulmates in Gaza, and kisses my long-lost aunts in Tehran.