I am but a speck.

A freckle in this resentful cosmos where hope is faulty and love is defective. I am minute to the expansive substance of this time and place. My existence has not deterred or precipitated a wave in the frequency. I have discharged myself from the confines of my being and float above to see what I have not. I am there, sat cross-legged and awkwardly perched against a wall typing and telling you what I see. A lemon tinted comforter to invoke my joy and piles of novels my anxiety won't allow me to read. I am gone and in replacement there are rows of houses where families and friends struggle to maintain their insignificant lives. People I will live near to for some time and never meet, because fate will have it that way. Higher and I am showered in the mist of celestial pillows arranged in ornate dispositions. The golden hour reaching and blushing tones of coral and apricot devises a hue that envelops me in its warmth. I wish to stay here because it is a veil I have dreamt to don but a force pulls me upward and I am ripped through the atmosphere. I shiver not because it is cold but because it is empty. A godforsaken onyx pool that floats terrenes and asteroids to its surface. The tender verdant and uncharted indigo grows more distant from my fingertips until it is but a freckle,

And I am but a speck.