With icy cold hands she touches the moon.
It's too cold to cry and too warm to sweat and too high above the planet to even see the mountains as something more than a line in the sand. That's all life is. A line in the sand. And her hands are cold and her breath is frosty and she's burning on the inside and crying steam and she can't really breathe because there's no air up here.
And she reaches out and she can touch the moon.
And once she's there, she can use the stars as stepping-stones, farther and farther away from home, until she finally reaches the other side of the universe and her own little star is just a speck in the limitless black and she's so far from real and so far from known and so far from life and death and pain and love and grief and dreams and bed and the cold, bitter taste of just another dead story. And from here it looks so ethereal and somehow false that it's almost a caricature of the sky she saw at NASA that one time.
And as soon as the thought reaches her diluted mind she's ripped away from the stars and off of the moon and into her room and her world, only it isn't the same. It's duller and narrower and it suddenly suffocates her as much as empty matter did when she reached out and held the moon in the palm of her hand.
And she wakes up in a white room with pale ghosts whispering around her and she knows that the moon is out of her grasp.
A/N: It's strange, I know. Review if you like.