your shape is an illusion, i know not what holds you, what you hold cupped inside. i slake my thirst with my own blood that is carried in this unerring vessel like a punctuation mark so carefully placed, so esteemed in its rendering. the moon might hold you but you would balk at even that like a calf, though you are aging and even the skin of your upper arm will soon have the texture of a deflated basketball, worried by the sun, who envies the moon for its ability to hold without scalding. at the crown of my head you can find a chakra and you may keep it, i have others. i suddenly feel off-balance but i blame it on the lithium, this glorious thirst that never goes away. you glare at me so and the moon falls into shadow in sympathy. you are the shape of all things to come, i tell you after you wheedle me for a while. this pleases you. so i am also the shape of you? you ask. i don’t know how to answer this. i don’t know how to tell you that you are the sun, evaporating all liquid from the terrain, that i must extinguish you before you take away all that is left for me, even if it means sacrificing the moon, too.