I can exist. I can be. I’m reading the inflection of your voice by the color palette of your iris. You strike a fire with the connection of our clasped palms and this sun-stroke cripples me. I’m flying as I’ve separated myself from this place and space and I can feel my relation to the plummeting cosmos. Does the Universe move? Are we swirling, constantly in motion? Or are we static, in a crystallized stasis that is as precious and precise as the crowns of our heads.