I miss quiet, cold nights like these. I miss the wind. I miss the reflection of tiny, arcing flames burning the space between my eyelashes. I miss the swish of pine needles brushing the ground and the creaking of grandfather trees holding their last branches up among slowly turning crystal sprays. I miss having this empty space inside of me swell like a river, in silent, thundering bounds until my ribcage cannot bear it, cannot bear to only be flesh and blood while there is the sky. While there are stars. There is something about them that calls me, that brings me back to these places in the chill of night. Small and hard and insignificant against this Earth, I answer.