Ever Born Again

The place where the moon touches the earth in every direction you turn, making your heart swell with tiny moon butterflies, is my favorite. You spin in circles, and all you can ever see is the moon dusting the cold earth. Faster, faster your heart pounds against the small bones of your chest while your feet seem to melt into the dirt, like a liquid gold, staining the grass a light ocean of metallic flecks. Images blur in front of your opened eyes, the world turning into something like the clay on the potters wheel, one finger's pressure making a dent in the blue-velvet darkened sky. The same finger pushing each individual star in to the atmosphere so you can grab hold to a point and feel the life of it throb gently under your entire body, the frosty brilliance of its intricate exterior taking your breath from your tightly sealed lips with such ownership, as death claims the same, it's hard to protest. So you stand where the moon touches the earth in every direction you turn, making your heart swell with tiny moon butterflies and watch as the potter dents the blue-velvet darkened sky and pushes each little star into the atmosphere so you can feel the life of it throb gently under your entire body, and give complete ownership rights of your breath. Oh, how I wish you were here.