Dear Wigleaf:

It's dark out here in the Middle of Nowhere, and hot as hell, too, the best weather for skinny-dipping in the big lake. The stars hang low and heavy, ripe fruit in a black bowl of sky. I skinny-dipped once with a guy who asked me: What happens when they fall off on us? He was the last to take his pants off, the last to jump in the lake. I remember he swam head-up like a dog and coughed water, a pot smoker's wet hack.

I wish for the stars to fall, I wish on the ones that fall. I wish I could tether the sky to the horizon, stake it down snug so we could all sleep a little safer.

Love,

Sarah