wish justwrite nightwrite writewrite

Reach into my pupils and pull out your lunch, dark as a lake beneath the reflections. Hold it between your lips like I would hold the stars between my fingers if I could, gently but without wavering because if you drop a star it falls and then all you have is a wish. I repeat empty prayers when everything is hollow. I trace my name over and over on your back with my finger, try to scrub away the holes in the walls, scour the same plates each minute because the air is filled with dust and I need something to be clean. In the midst of movement, I stop. The room is spinning and the sky is passing over my head. One half of my face is deep blue, and I see you get lost when you look at me. I want to be able to find the sun and tell you what time it is. I think I said this aloud once, but you didn't hear anything. You were folding stars into my skin like eggs into dough. I want to take in the shadow on the horizon and know how many hours I've been alive. I said this aloud once. You told me there's a constellation called the big dipper and it's like a spoon sinking in a lake and still believing it's empty. When I picture you, your lips are paused in the middle of words like "spoon" or "alone." I hold you between my fingers, gently, thinking of my wish.