I am okay.
Something slithers around my legs, brushing against my ankle. Briefly. Slowly. The sun is setting behind me, the shadows crawl all over the walls. You ignore me in your search for perfection. You have traveled the entire length of the world, hunted in the brightness of the stars, stomped on the craters of the moon. Just to feel it in your hands, in your palms, between your fingers.
My head, too awkward for my body, so heavy for my heart, weighs less at the equator.
You will never look at my face, you will never know how the evening sky folds itself into me in a blaze of color.
Perfection lies some 25,000 to 28,000 light-years away.