Explosions in the Sky - Your Hand in Mine

she made stars out of her hands. i mean, she cut paper into little pieces and used her fingers to bend the paper into star shapes. i thought if i threw them at the sky they would float up there all on their own, but i wanted to keep them for myself. i know it's selfish, but given the chance, wouldn't anyone want to hold a piece of the sky in their hand? maybe the stars in the sky are really burning balls of paper, shared by people less selfish than me. maybe i just wanted to hold a piece of her in my hand.

paper star girl used to walk down the street a lot in the summer. she had jean shorts and converse (who doesn't?) and she jingled when she moved: it was bangles on her wrists and keys in her pocket (house keys, car keys, keys to closets, hearts, hidden places) and noises in her chest. she met people on the street and she liked to talk to them. she talked to the man with dreadlocks and a white t-shirt. she talked to the girl sitting behind a table selling hand made bracelets. paper star girl did not buy a bracelet but she gave the girl a cookie from her lunch (she had leftover pasta for lunch and two cookies). she talked to a boy with sandy brown hair and a pretty smile and he was nice to her. he had a blue t-shirt and she gave him a paper star.

all at once paper star girl gave everything away, yet maintained an air of mystery. it seemed to everyone who met her that there was something even better behind her smile, if only they could get to it. but they couldn't.

she turned dresses into skirts and she stitched holes together. i wanted to crawl into her bed, into pink and colours, and swamps and swallowed by blankets like oceans and silly putty. she was smarter than me, already i could tell by the way she moved her wrists and shoulders, the way she bounced on all the edges of her feet. i could tell by the way the ink came out of her pen when she carved letters onto paper: "i just want to reach over..."

the books i read made it sound easy, but my hands seemed to weigh more than all those pages i'd ever read put together. i couldn't lift a needle.

at night paper star girl spoke alone in her room.

i wanted paper star girl to make me stars out of paper. i wanted paper star girl to take care of me. i wanted paper star girl to stitch me together. i wanted paper star girl to wrap me up inside of her. i wanted to cry on paper star girl. was i afraid my tears would ruin paper star girl? see, did paper star girl make paper stars or was paper star girl herself a star made out of paper? and what if i ripped paper star girl, or if i cried and my tears touched her and she didn't rip but merely came apart in a mushy lump like kleenex under water?

i was paper and we set ourselves on fire and burned up on the way to the atmosphere, and fell right down again, and lay there in the gutter, ashy, burned up stars; me with my heavy hands, and the real paper star girl, with the jingles from her bracelets and keys and noises in her heart, with a love for people and cookies and making things with her hands. she had a knack for turning lives around.