Michelle

“Who are you protecting, Moonbeam?”

Survival’s funny. So

“Who are you protecting, Moonbeam?”

Survival’s funny. Some wear it like a whisper, others like a scream.

These pages are going to rip the world to shreds.

There’s something poetic about looking up and seeing that which has passed. A soft launch into grief for those who linger below.

I’d rather . . . be listening to her vivid explanations for the colorful clouds draped across The Fade, her words so descriptive my mouth would water—like I could taste the colors, feeling their textures puff against my tongue. She made freedom sound so exquisite with her big, beautiful vocabulary. Made it sound so magical. I couldn’t wait to taste clouds with her. To lie on our backs, side by side, and look upon the real moons.

Eyes wide, I search the sky, chasing the cloud’s mournful tears as they sing their fatal song. Like each tiny raindrop is innately aware they’re caught in a descent that can only end one way. That they will never be more whole than they are right now, plummeting to their doom.