Moon Rocks And Eggs

I speak to you a lot, in my head or my heart or wherever it is ghosts are held. You are not always you though. Sometimes you are her or them. Sometimes you are D) all of the above. All the circles and all the loops and all the ghosts, however, they always end back with you.

I was asked the other day how I know you. I told them we used to float around the same circles in the sky back when we were moon rocks. Back before we were amniotic sac pen-pals tapping secrets in Morse code across time and space. That I’d known you since the dawn of time. I think. I’m never quite sure. Sometimes I feel a galaxy away from my moon rock days.

They didn’t understand. That’s okay. Neither do I.

How do I know you? Do I know you? Do you know me? What makes up knowledge of another?

Is it that I know how you take your coffee? But wait, you forgot to mention you don’t drink that shit anymore, haven’t for a while. Didn’t you tell me?

Is it that I know what your pancreas sounds like? It speaks to me sometimes, when you’re asleep and we haven’t talked in suns. It whispers that you enjoyed the eggs you made for breakfast. They were perfectly over easy, a skill it reports you have been practicing hard. Your fingers think they’ve finally gotten the hang of when to flip. Your pancreas is really proud of you.

I’m really proud of you. I don’t tell you that enough. Or maybe it’s too much, so the words have lost their gravity. Instead of sinking in, they drift upward, slowly floating in the atmospheric in-between. If I put just enough glow into them, you can mistake them for a shooting star or a UFO. Make a wish, beam yourself up into my stun gun rays. Know that the ray sees you. It’s been pointed your way for millennia, a spotlight with crosshairs. I spot you.

In the kitchen. Down the hall. Now to the door. Turn. Eyes to the mirror one last time. Exhale. I don’t have to ask what you see or fear. They are the same thoughts and fears you had way back when, when you’d orbit some distant planet just to see your shadow in its reflection.

I want to reach out, run my finger across the parts of your face where your critical eyes linger, press my thumb to your temple and whisper just how proud I am of your egg flipping fingers. But rocks don’t have hands, and words were never needed.

I am though. Proud. Proud because I know you. At least, I think I do.

How do I know you? How does she know me? What stories do we share and with whom? If we retold them, would the narrative match? Would we have the same villains? Did we ever cross paths in the sky?

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