There is no part of us that isn't a cloud. Our eyes, our teeth, our hands.
Your hands are the jars which catch your lightning bugs fingertips. Your instinct to become an insect when the moon is frozen just-so in the Jell-o of the sky is almost frightening. How do you know when to transform? Why do your wings have a mind of their own? I suspect you've dabbled in some black magic. The lonely sphere reflects itself in the mirror you shattered years ago. Has it been seven years? Should I buy you a rabbit's foot to counteract? Not that I believe in that junk. But you might. Abracadabra, darling.
And you might release those fireflies. Your matchstick fingers might strike and light up the entire field of wheat that died from the drought. The fact that we are clouds doesn't mean we contain rain. We yield, we migrate, we hunger.
We are not heavy enough to fall under gravity. You ignite. I burn.
Your light fingertips create a chemical reaction on the cracked skin covering my clavicle. You tap a few time on the bone, but no one is home. I can't answer because I'm too busy surviving in other climates.
We are still resistant. We are still trapped in our jars. We still remain stationary, waiting for a collision that will never come.
Still, we light up the whole night sky.