I ran out of books to read when I was nine years old

so I lay awake at night, telling myself a story that became

everyone you love will die.

The children do not know that this is why we grow wrinkles:

aspects of our skin falling towards the ground

until we become the dirt

or the sand made in fire

mixed into other bodies and no one will mind.

This is what it feels like.

Too funny.

I made her smile so much

she fell farther than we hoped

until we only had a hand to

grind into dust

ashes to ashes

fly away.

I don’t like when she flies.

Stay on the ground

and I’ll plant you a garden,

I say.

stay here until we can reach for heaven

together.

But she says darkness.

Only darkness in the ground,

but the sky can give us meaning.

I say,

Tell me a story.

I hoped for my tear to raise her,

all I see is dirt growing cloudy.