3. Dear Sun


Dear Sun,

In London you wore a deep burqa. For so long you hid yourself in voluminous veils that I barely knew you anymore. I missed you. I longed to see your face again and I grew pale.

You tease. You showed me your legs in Bratislava which made me sweat so much that my orange skirt turned white with salt. But then you abandoned me in Suzhou. You wore a titanium spacesuit so thick that I couldn’t see even the blue of your skies.

Oh wicked wench. I who have never flirted with sunbeds, nor fake tan, who have ever been loyal to your pure caress, you swaddled yourself and I turned grey like everyone else in that awful city.

But I survived.

For the first four months in Wellington the wind chased me through the streets and I forgot about you. I faded. You were gone.

When I walked the Hutt River I thought I might run into you. I thought it but didn’t prepare myself, and, of course, one kilometre in there you were. Very alive and very naked. Barely a wisp of ozone separated your celestial body from mine. For hours you poured your lovely love onto me and I bathed in it.


Sun you were the best and surest lover I’d ever had until I started roaming the globe. And now you have followed me here to the bottom of the world and you abuse me.

I am pink all over.




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Nat Newman

Nat Newman is an award-winning writer of short stories, content, podcasts, feature articles, drunk text messages and, soon, a novella.


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