I sit on the porch steps every night,

staring up at the sky, mentally tracing the

constellations, admiring the moon’s patience,

wondering and imagining.

I like to think of the void above as a work

of art. Splashes of black blend with strokes

of blue to paint our night sky. Thousands of

freckles scatter the abyss.

At times, the intensity of the world before my

eyes makes me feel small and powerless.

As if I am trying to light a candle with a

broken wick. Watering chrysanthemums with lidocaine.

Reading a book I already know the ending of.

Each night, I look up to remind myself that

these feelings will not last forever. The melted

wax on my fingertips will dry. The flower petals

overflowing my lungs will wilt. And the paper cuts

on my tongue will heal.

I look up to remind myself that there

are infinite possibilities out there and that

I am capable of experiencing them all.