Have A Drink - Olivia Richardson

From the cliff, I reached up and scooped the cosmos into my glass. The inky sky swirled with stardust glitter. I brought the glass to my lips and let the night sky fall down my throat. The stars scratched against my tongue, burning as I swallowed them down. The cold, thick liquid smoothed out the cuts. It tampered the burns and filled me up with every secret it held. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching for the next glass. Oh how nice it felt. I gulped down glass after glass until the universe was too heavy in my hands. With that final sip, the one I could only half choke down, I swirled all that remained. Blue and purple and colors I could never name, could never attempt to describe, could only feel. Shining sparks that blinded me and that I couldn’t look away from. The breeze floated from the sea below and up past me. The gentle push against my wrist made my fingers falter, my grip lost. Sky splattered into the grass and I watched in a haze as they melted together. Deep pools and rivers, running gently through the blades, tumbling over the cliff edge. It dripped down 

down 

down 

down 

down 

down 

down 

down—

meeting the waves. I imagine the fish gathered to admire the stars now in their grasp. The sea then must have turned darker and more mysterious than ever. The horizon must have vanished. But I was long lost by that time—part of the galaxy before the first piece of stardust hit the water.