The moon is waxing gibbous

You’ll be brave this time. Your name will seep through your skin and you’ll feel it. Poaching eggs with faces like the moon. Running through the city like there’s two minutes until the end of the world and the lights are down. Riding your bike and pretending like it’s the largest place on earth, and you can carry everyone. Get in. You have dirty hands. Keep them. These words run off everything you touch and you’re no longer a one-liner, you’re Moby Dick in a kingdom by the sea, where the angels come to steal lessons. Your skin burns. You are the bold seagull, hopping on one leg to get my attention. You have learned what it is like to fly and you’re begging me to be Fenchurch: lose your socks over London. This time you’ll be the one to steal the tomatoes. You are the mirrored hall in Versailles. You are the glass lake before the Doctor gets shot and all time folds back on itself. You are time. Feel it. Remember what it was like, back when you and everything else was still nothing. Remember that burst of joy, when you finally became something. You’ll be the Mediterranean, burning white with the sun, eight minutes late and five billion years early. You’ll be the phone number written on the palm, the sweat that rises to meet it, the eyes like Ferris wheels in front of a 1920’s sunset. You’ll be the colour green. You’ll be bold this time, to take my hand and pull me along in the rain like nothing else matters, nothing but that the lights are out and you are turning into the moon.