maybe you can just hide in someone else’s hands;
act as though the moon is a drop of pink milk on the blackened concrete,
as though the sun is just another way to hide
the way we imprint ourselves in the lives of others.
the night has forgotten to alert the tiny gods
waiting between time to take everything back,
but if we drink the lakes then we may forget
ourselves –
only to forgive ourselves years later.
so maybe you can hide in these hands
for a while longer,
and pretend the whispering is the wind.