Two Suns.

I cannot parse the sad from the lonely.
They wear each other's masks.
Each is a tiny, cold sun,
with its flameless skirt eclipsing.
I wonder if one can be set apart from the other--
if loneliness can be stripped of its
melancholy drapings,
and sadness divested of its own horror.
I wonder if I will ever wake to see
their white faces, palely nodding,
and kiss their cheeks to blushing.
Will I love them dearly, as a part of myself,
as a celebration of the human in me,
of the solitary, the frail.