The Night I Became Scheherazade

My body was made
entirely of holes.
Each a nameless story.
I thought
maybe if I kept talking
we would forget
to sleep. Or sail
from one island
of slumber to the next,
a sky of only our breathing.
When else have I prayed
to some tired deity–
some treacherous djinn–
and wished for the entire Earth
and its motors to slow?
My philosophies
were carved on stone:
Happiness is a fleeting thing.
Joy is only the first
and loudest echo
in the valley of contentment.
But the legend speaks
of a woman who told stories
for one thousand nights.
In those two and something years
who knows if they learned
to talk only with eyes?
If they saw in one another
eternities of stories
abridged into a smaller
eternity of stories?
If they simply let
the warm night
dot the constellations
of what never happened?

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