I want to write.
Snatch the sun and trap it upon A4 until it melts into words, inky gold
I want to become the North Pole,
and every light that dances in the dark and shines in the day be the south.
I would pluck every wisp from my magnetic skin and put it in a fluffy sock to keep warm.
Then, I would let it spill into the sun,
no longer a thin slice of a tree’s many years but all the love in my heart.
I hold my writing up to you, the light of my life,
and all is dim memory.