You are the sweat on the brow of a mother in her thirteenth hour of labor. You are the fickle fingers of a child grazing a splintery fence midday. You are a sixteen-syllable sentence uttered by a woman with beautiful lips. You are the thousands of end-of-the-world kisses in constant exchange at each terminal. You speak and rain falls upward. You blink and butterflies dissolve. There are shells of people out there trying, each day, to become an atom in the vast dance of your movements, to seek the mode in the range of your emotions. You are bottled nebulae with a cork that is waiting to pop.
You are lunar flora: prickly pear cacti which fill craters steeping in a celestial marinade hailing from the Horsehead. And should you stand beneath the sun for too long, the land which surrounds you would recede into the dark recesses from whence it came, and the soft luminescence of your eyes would suffice to lead your way.