Would you want to see the moon up close? If someone offered. To see if it glitters?

You catch your breath and hold it still in anticipation each time you walk outside. You are waiting for molten sky, because at first glance of it your mind will serenade you with long since broken in lyrics. You wished for songs you could carry in your pocket, and a genie somewhere responded to your request with an ipod. Now maybe someone somewhere can think up a way to tattoo songs on your body, stitch the music into your skin to patch up your wounds with melodies, bury them forever in your flesh so as to better soothe the soul that rattles noiselessly its commotion. The day screeches. Your mind tells you it's cars but you imagine creatures prowling under a harvest moon, a moon not unlike the one you swear hovered in yesterday's sky even though it's summer.

You venture onto the first page of a new book, but your mom wants you to listen to her talk instead. You comply, your starved eyes still transfixed on the page. With an audible sort of magic it fizzes, and you buckle backwards into the desire to soak up every word, backwards into the need to balance each syllable on your tongue as if getting poised to speak, but there is the deception. Your greed lets them melt there, to be absorbed by your being and nobody else's. You read in silence. People talk about passion like it's a good thing, but you see how it sows selfishness in he that possesses it. Passion is always lusty and ardent like a flame, even when burning in the most innocent of lanterns.

You walk, and the last of the sand your toes carried like treasure between them falls away. Sea salt clings to your strands, pulls them into distinct little crescents that hang from your head in content isolation. In the mirror, the resultant stringy hair jumping around your shoulders gives you the appearance of a child.

You tire, yet you don't want to stop, you are inspired. Want the spell to inundate you like a cup, overflow your center and pour out over your corners with the energy and the momentum of freedom. But you press pause on your fingers that fly wildly, put an end to the sweeping caresses that touch down on the keyboard before falling away as quickly as they had come.