Seasonal Depression

The sky gets dark at four and then night lingers on until seven
His greedy fingers grabbing at morning like the sunrise has promised him something.
The sun does not fight back.
Instead, the sun slinks across the sky,
Afraid of any unwanted attention
Hoping to go about her business unnoticed and make it home before dark.

The sun is distant, these days, and cold
She is afraid any heat, any semblance of warmth, might give the night the wrong idea.
The sun does not want anyone to think she was asking for it.
The sun is careful not to take up too much space in the winter time.

The night sprawls himself ever longer,
Reaching for space that never belonged to him.
Space that he assumes is his birthright
Because no one has ever told him it's not.
Because, hey, if it's not his, why does the sun give it up so easily?

The sun gives the night her space quietly,
Without a fight.
Wishing for spring.