This morning I sat down to write. I couldn't. I read word lists and poems to fire the little spark in my brain that stores letters for tumbling out. It wouldn't light. Now here I sit with tiredness dripping off me, ready to crawl into a crater of the moon and lay soporific in its crust.
Maybe I will travel the night and the moon will feed me her custard dreams and lull me with the breath of heavy winds that shuttle us across the sky.
Maybe as the sun takes over our shift , I will bow my head and be tipped back through my window, burning silently under glass as the darkness curdles into light.
Maybe I will wake forgetting I dangled amongst the stars.
Maybe I will mistake the ordinary for my life.