something about raindrop collectors, and splashing eyes

[Kazumoto Endo]

Tonight I thought about the sea.

It's something I like to imagine often: the two of us, on a little ship where nobody can cut me in the eye or inflict secret hurts on you and we have some water to drink and the sun to shine on us and the really occasional squawk of some distant gulls so we know that the world keeps turning. There's the blue in all directions, every direction, even up (because of the sky) and it's good, and you smile a lot more and you look really pretty and nothing's wrong.

Then at night, when it's dark and there's just the crescent moon, we lay before the twinkling thousand stars and you point out the thirteen points of constellation Corellian among their host, because I think you'd know about that and I'd pretend not to know just so you had an excuse to put your arm at my shoulders, which is nice. And then I would say something, and you would laugh, and I would laugh too because, really, it's hard not to do it too when somebody you really like is laughing.

Then we drift away quietly and I think about two little shocks of green and I feel so peaceful and warm, from the pit of my stomach all the way to the part of the throat that you'd talk from.

It's a nice thought, but it isn't real. There's nobody in my room with me and that feels sort of bad. It's hard to think again about anything but the wood and the witch and this nasty feeling of something cold pressed at my throat, so I try not to cry. It doesn't work.