Tonight I will write poetry beneath the moon, his warmth coating my every breath, his fluorescent melancholy falling upon the backs of my hands, begging them to write on. I asked him if he misses the stars, when they travel across the sky to sing a different world to sleep. He looked at me with tears in his eyes, my reflection swimming inside of them. When he spoke his voice was fled with the sound of the ocean, and the rustling of trees, from swallowing the wind. “I miss them quiet terribly.” He said. And so I carried his words upon my back, and I gave them to the stars. But when I had reached the stars, they had already forgotten of the moon. So I ran against the wind, I ran with fistfuls of sunlight hidden in my pockets; I ran with the hope of outrunning my shadow, so that I could finally be on my own. And then it poured, and all at once I woke upon a Lilly-pad beneath the moon, and I wrote him poems about the stars.