The Starweaver

It's two on a Sunday afternoon and you've only just woken up. The water's heating for coffee, and in those ninety seconds your mind has already split the day four ways and quietly dropped all four. You end up by the window with a book you aren't really reading, pulling one line into a wider net. What if Kyoto in three years. What if the writing on the side finds its readers. You tell none of it to anyone, because solitude isn't the empty seat where company should be. It's where you can finally hear the half-finished sentences running in your head. Here's the catch: you keep waiting for the cleanest moment to begin, and so does the new moon, hanging there dark, certain it'll come back full, forgetting that round always starts with one step taken before there's light to take it by. Vega works her loom on the far bank of the river of stars. You don't have to wait for full to start weaving yours.