On Sunbathing
In this moment, you are like a turtle perched on a log, unwilling to move an inch for fear the sun will not fully coat you in its delicious honeyed kiss. You want every bit of light to cover you, soak into your skin, and fill your body with the warmth of your desert sky. It is pure nourishment, your soul forged anew under that solar gaze like tiny cleansing flames licking your skin.
You would take all your clothes off if you could, let yourself wear nothing but sunlight until your skin returns to its natural bronze color, faded after a winter buried under too many layers of clothes. But you can forget all those layers now under the sun's tender caress. You want to map the sun's passage as it makes its way along your body, tattooing your limbs with its essence. It starts with your closed eyelids--its touch surprisingly gentle across your lashes--then winds its way down to your toes and through your fingertips, luxuriating in the whole length of you.
Later you will still feel the heat of the sun in your body, although it has left the sky and the earth has cooled with the inevitable darkness. Your skin will still be warm and your insides glowing from a day spent daydreaming, drifting, losing track of everything except the way the sunlight burns away impurities and feeds your true essence.
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