Lay in bed, head over pillow, arms outstretched in the air where patterns dance in the dark; neon squares turn into lines that fold into dice and sparkling dandelions exploit in your hands. Gold dust floats around, golden Holi in your eyes; to have your skin dyed, to have it become a second sun and shine in the light. Yours is a movement that hangs from six strings and the pain of a perfect duet, and cello highs and waves that collide and desperation of lows so low you have to quiet your heart so hear them right.

There is a hole in the ceiling where my face goes in, the edge of the volcano where I sit. Where I melt. As long as I have silvered hands I wont be able to reach for the stars.

Es verdad que a veces presiono las teclas tan despacio que no dejan marca. Que a veces hablo tan bajito que los demás no me escuchan. Que a veces me siento tan chiquita que todo lo que soy cabe en un cajón.

Y que tengo miedo de escribir algo hermoso.