Shakespeare spoke the truth. There is a hole in my narrative.
I walk under silken moon dressed in starlight that burns. The earth feels like lace beneath my feet. I stand mesmerized by the horned owl’s endless eyes. Time absorbs into my skin. I massage it in as if it were cream rich with a forgotten dew.
Between counting lifetimes and moving my bones to wind-chime tune, I drink chocolate from copper cup and lose several pieces of my finite veil to a biting wind.