Tonight I Ask the Stars

In our everyday lives, we don't look up and ask the stars. In middle school, my sister created a playlist called 'Blue, not Grey' on her iPod. It is a relic and a throwback, to when the color of the moon could alter your mood.

In our everyday lives, we don't tell our secrets to strangers, though we pass them in traffic and share perhaps the same diseased air. I am told, in traffic, that I am the traffic. This strikes me as being meta, though we could also just go forward. Hurry up, I think. I am asymptomatic, merely waiting for the light to change.

In our everyday lives, we accept the love we received as children. Hugs are the foundation of normalcy: reject one, and you know something bad has happened to them.

My sister left her iPod on the table, not giving it as a gift, but merely as a statement: I am gone, here is the last piece of me you'll hear for a while. California does this to people, makes them change. I'm still waiting for her blue light to change to grey. A postcard home should read: I need a hug, will you give me one?

Tonight I ask the stars: can we reverse what has been done to us?