Come and count the stars with me, Emmie. Lie on my roof and feel the shingles dig into your shoulders while we count the infinite. How many do you see? I point 26, 27, 28… no, you missed one. There, that one, right next to Mars. Where is Mars? I don’t know. I lost it, somewhere up in infinity. You can find it for me.
You can’t count more stars than me, Emmie. Try it. I go all the way up to forever, counting and counting and counting in the dark, with summer on my chest and the shingles on my back and the tight bricks of the chimney looming close like an anchor. I go all the way across the sky, from Mercury to Pluto. Fly with me Emmie, past the moon, until we can’t see my roof or the streetlights or the tree, gnarled like an old crone in your yard.
Let me lose myself here, Emmie. 1, 2, 3, let me be. I won’t come down until the sun
comes up to replace me, here on these uncomfortable shingles where nothing ever stays past dawn. Apollo does not know this face of mine. Let me see these tiny suns like so many heartbeats, Venus pulsing in my blood, stationary above as we are not. Never. Let me lose myself here, Emmie, counting the stars in your eyes.