Inconsequence

She likes the evenings where the clouds roll in off the ocean and fill the sky with pillowy softness. Those nights where you can lie out in the brisk air, falling up onto the velvet quilt, are her favourite nights. She finds peace on those nights.

She tries not to go out once the sun has set if the sky is clear. She’s scared of disappearing into obscurity, into the depths of the navy ocean and the tiny pinpricks that burn inconceivable distances from the little patch of earth where she stands. She worries that the stars will swallow her if she spends too long beneath their gaze, and so she avoids them and all of the space in which they live, hiding from the dizzying distance.

She prefers the soft comfort of a cloudy cocoon. She doesn’t want to remember her inconsequence.