I read somewhere that the dust behind my bookshelf is made of stars and of me, pieces of the person I was.
I've shed my skin and it's fallen away, mingled with stardust and stray hairs from my body. What falls between the pages of books left open on the shelf is not for me to know, but for the words to feel. Printed letters must gain something, some meaning, some feeling, from the brushed off cells of my body, from the fallen eyelashes and the sand of meteors crashing through the upper atmosphere, falling through clouds and gathering speed or moisture. Sometimes I wonder if the stars we saw fall that night last summer are touching us now, or touching pieces of what we were then. Pieces of us that have fallen away, skin cells and hair and fingernail clippings, pieces of who we were last summer. Perhaps the stars knew us then, perhaps they know us now. And I don't know you now, but I did then, and perhaps pieces of me are mixed with pieces of you, and the stars we saw, behind my bookshelf. So I can't bring out the feathers.