“A friend wrote a poem about me being a melanted moon and I’d like to write one back for him except he’s the sun ( masculine)”

Bright-heart, lacquered gold and brimmed with dawn,  
You stride through the quiet where my shadows yawn.  
If I am the moon with my melanin hue—  
In night’s embrace, mellowed, mysterious, true—  
Then surely you are morning, roaring bold,  
A sun dipped in copper, in honey and gold.

Where I rise in silver, soft in the seam  
Of twilight’s quilt and indigo dream,  
You break the sky open, muscle and fire,  
You draw the world upward, urge it higher.  
In your orbit, blues burn out to white,  
Painted in courage, swathed in light.

Your laughter is anthem; your hope is a flare—  
Fields wake to your trumpet, bluebells and air.  
When fears flutter close, trembling like moths,  
You banish the darkness with warmth that I sought.  
My stories are moonbeams you catch in your palm,  
Reflecting them back, turning hush into psalm.

Should I wax and I wane, or drift out of view,  
You are unwavering, radiant, true.  
We spin one rhythm—dark velvet, bright gold—  
Day and night dancing, silent [?], bold.  
For if I’m the moon, my luminous friend,  
The sun is the reason my shadows can mend.

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