He is cold-blooded. He requires warmth to come into existence.
I am sunlight who does not understand her purpose.
In the absence of depth perception, stumbling on aura, I scatter light and wait for its reflection. I can’t see around corners, so instead, I chase shadows of my own creation.
He catches light and sends it back. He is mimetic, and I am the medium to which he rises.
He reflects. I’m reminded.
We’re at the mercy of the clouds.