craving The tin of life sweeps me on my feet I watch the other patrons, all employed, tied to some entity that asks the world of them. I whisper into an empty piggy bank saving secrets with the lurching wind. My hands scrape at the wisps of promise left by the ghosts of my old name. I call out, waiting for the world to return my voicemail, but the house is empty, the lights on but flashing like diseased strobes, my knees creak to the same rhythm of the stars in the attic. And, love? love is an invention by people unimaginative and without memory of fear. I am waiting for something to bring me out of my madness with the world. Life is not made but made from everyday moments: the swipe of hand, the caress of neck, my hand offering new life to the lost bird found on my windowsill. I don’t know how anyone comes into this world without wonder breaking through their seams. I don’t believe in a universe that crushes dreams without a mad tenderness towards the rage of dreamers. And people are falling again, lost in space without a lifeguard on duty. I pray to be a rounding error in this world’s cruel score. I want the body count of my dreams to be an infinitesimal. I wish on a shooting star and think that life is a series of apologies, stars that shone too bright without the universe’s permission. We will always find a way to be on the pedestal, looking down, wondering how anyone managed to crave so much.