I Am the Messenger

by Markus Zusak

The moon leans down on me as I sit on my front porch

I walk out into the foyer. It’s caked in sunshine.

I recall the way her old-fashioned kettle whistled till she went over and soothed it.

Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours.

Clouds like cement are paved in sections to the sky.