sips of spilled milk

The moon presses his face up to my window, his breath fogging up the glass. I peel back the fog and wrap myself in its glistening threads, letting shudders march in a single file down my spine. His shadow spills milk on the unforgiving tile, and it’s laced with gossamer cataracts that I try to rub from my own eyes. The moon scoops up the milk and flees, ducking behind a lingering cloud. He leaves a drop. I drink it. 

The stars squint and blink from their peepholes in the sky, their sparks of movement trailed by two pupils. Trembling sighs weave through my hair, one for each star’s wish to be on my side of the drapery we call the sky. They claim that they’ve been on this side before, but I don’t know if it’s true (they've claimed to be diamonds before). I only know that when I imagine flying up to theirs, my sighs can braid my hair. Stars are bigger than what the gaps show. I’ve heard them say that they are one, and they’re called the sun. 

The night is the day’s velvet back. She stands before us, her face turned away to gaze at what could have been. Her other side fools us. Afraid of the dark, we drive her away, wielding counterfeit suns poorly modeled after her own heart.