We are so small between the stars, so large against the sky, Lost among the subway crowd, I try to catch your eye

It's midnight and I am Cinderella. I am clutching at my ragged robes and running the race that began in my mind light years ago, and one that I run a million times every day.

I reach home, my nook of hearth and fire, tired and out of breath, my mouth tasting of salt, my hair a tangled wreck, the whispers choked at the throat. I cannot be caught. Outside the sky is a million different hues of no colour. Inside, the fire's died out. I have been away for long.

Have you noticed how cold it is in here? I reach for the matches and touch a charred bit of cinder. It smells distinctly of memories. Absolute and ill-defined.

My fingers are made of glass. I am afraid they are transparent. I am afraid that when I touch you they'll break. Afraid that when I say 'no', insistently, smilingly, with practised ease, you will not hear the voice screaming `yes', begging for your attention, begging for you to take note.

My robes get frayed every day at the edges. I pull them closer desperately. It's cold in here. Transparent. Yes.

In the corner, the wicker lampshade throws up patterns on the wall. In my mind I put a figure to the distance.

So little, the hours. Before we both mouth pleasantries and say goodbye.

'Stay well.' 'You too.'

Start over and over again. Every day. Word on word. Conversation to build conversation. So that no trace of the beginning remains. So that we can clutch at familiar landmarks to tide us over. My moments missing yours. Yours, mine.

Accidents. Small and large. My fate and yours. Unknown. Uncertain. Full of possibilities.

Sometimes when I open my palms there are stubborn stains of sunshine, and I can smell miracle.

Every day this new beginning. Every day this wait for the sunshine to streak my palms.

Every day.