he gave me a flower in the shape of the world and i knew not how to touch it, terrified of the gravity of continents and filaments resting between my fumbling fingertips.
“take it,” he says, eyes searching mine with the urgency of a waiting room love, afire with the potency of a now upon which hangs the stems and roots of tomorrow.
“i’ve never been good with maps,” i whisper, hearing a voice i don’t recognize as my own, spilling a white lie in a final effort to keep free from the entanglement of surging rivers and endless sands. “i’m afraid i just might lose myself, trapped in cities where the waterways shift into mazes every night while the petal-sky slowly falls in pieces to hide my path.”
“it’s always been yours,” he says, pushing it gently into my reluctant hands, and i begin to shiver in the night air, breathless with the weight of what i now possess.
“how can that be?” i breathe, riveted to the wildfire glowing before me. “i was not prepared for this.”
“you were born for this moment,” he assures me, and when i look up to meet his gaze i find he’s gone, leaving me standing alone beneath the moonlight, the petalled weight of his entire world resting gently in the palms of my hands.
if i ever find him again, pass him unexpectedly on a crowded street, i must be sure to ask his name.