my normal size

If I miss anything from Flagstaff, other than people, it's the sky. Especially on a clear night in the dead of winter. Leaving a friend's house or a bar or the PIE a tad too late, fearing what's on the other side of the door, knowing that the cold will sink through my two jackets and paralyze my breath in midair, but not caring once I remembered that sky. I would walk all the way home with my eyes glued straight above if I could. I felt huge underneath that sky. Growing bigger and bigger with each step, soaking up all those tiny spotlights, absorbing the worlds that orbit them. Luckily, no one was ever around to see how big those stars made me. If I went on for too long, I had to duck underneath airplanes and hop over telephone wires and shoo away the ravens nipping at my clothes. It was beautiful up there. I could rearrange the clouds and strum a tune on Lyra and steal a feather from Cygnus and play tag with Orion and chew on the Milky Way until it was time to fish out my speck of a key and unlock my coin sized door and push my way in till I was back to my normal size. I'm always my normal size here. The spotlights have burnt out and Lyra's strings have all broke and Cygnus has taken to feather-plucking and Orion has lost his sword. The Milky Way has melted and the clouds have pushed everything away. And I am always my normal size.