CDs scattered on the street like insistent and flattened stars. A bright sun painted on the pavement, shining in the wet darklight. A footprint in the rain.

A thousand impermanent footprints.

Under my onion’s potted home is powdered soil, a leftover on my living room floor from when I pulled it away from the rainstorm. My kitchen mat is powdered with cornstarch, a memory from the dumplings I pleated with care. These are a kind of footprint, too.

A larger being might say me, such a human of a dinosaur. Sprawled amongst of an orbit of floor bedding today, bright pink under my eyes like I painted myself nebula. Tucked close to a white stuffed bunny, sinking into the blackhole of deadlines I will not reach.

A smaller being might say me, such a dinosaur of a human. An unmappable mountain, stretched into nap in a meadow of fluff. Guarded by a creature with ears as tall as the sky.

Last month I saw a nickel in the crack of a sidewalk.

The cold currency could not fill this gap the way soft soil would’ve met the challenge, the way soft dough might’ve. The cold currency pinned a leaf down under it, splintered its soft body.

On the floor today, I thought of that. Stretched my arms out. Made sure they were still attached.

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Prompt: What I saw on the floor (via Instagram suggestion)