preface

on a bustling street of new york city, there's a small coffee shop called the midnight café. that's where i, nico diangelo, work the night shift. the night does not love me or speak to me, she is quiet. she merely harbors me and the souls of those with nothing left, our only comfort being a cup of coffee on a rainy night.

but him? the sun adores him. she leaves kisses on his nose and cheeks and covers him in freckles. she adorns him with a crown of gold. she loves him because his smile could turn nectar into honey and ice into water. she follows him wherever he goes, bringing light with her.

the sun looks good on him.

[#1 in solangelo 7/25/19]