Starlight

In the space within your rib cage where your lungs normally reside, in the space within your schedule where most days you have panic and scramble, for one evening you make room for words, your little stories. Time becomes irrelevant in the little wood-paneled living room, they write to say, stay as long as you would like, and you wonder what you would like. At the coffee shop, neighbors and strangers speak with each other like they're in a tiny village in the woods, not a great beast of a world metropolis. It warms you. Outside, a cool wind blows the cherry blossoms across the street. 

You long for nothing, yet you long for everything. The world lies vast and possible beyond your door, your door, but it lies vast and impossible inside your ribs as well, it is an equation you have never been able to calculate successfully. One seems to take too much from the other. 

Both give more
than you could ever have hoped.