tell me how I sleep, tell me how I wake up, tell me how I dream.

You're a bruise on a hip willing itself to turn purple, the blues and the blacks that form a combination similar to a nebula. There is a line you won’t forget, deliberate, messy, tactile.

It’s something about the sun burning out and there being no one else to save, forgotten at the bottom, the cusp of an astronomy book. These are the things that give us our place, A to Z, forming a tender line as thin as string that we refuse to cross, despite the want for it.

We forget and remember at the same time - the wrong and the right things, the heaviness, or perhaps the lightness stolen, cupped by the hand in the afternoon light. Floating delicately in a sea of calm.