dribble, drip, swish, sway: these are all things we mutter

If donkeys could drown, they’d no longer have reason to frown. 

The truth being, that donkeys tend to reason, is that with your head swaying so close to the ground, it’s fairly simple to know where to go. Minerals shine just as bright as stardust—a fact uncommon to all except donkeys, it seems—illuminating this-a-way and that-a-way, even the over-here-theres and maybe-some-wheres. And, even if the paths come to a halt, in seemingly finite ends, donkeys know that the earth never stops, the oceans swaying and embracing memories of dust. 

(Embraced by the unknown, donkeys would never feel alone.)

If dolls could fly, they’d no longer have reason to cry.

The saying goes, that surely only dolls know, is that when the sky surrounds you, life forms at the seams of clouds. No longer would they require false fillings in broken remains—though dolls always make the most of their hearts, it’s true—but brimming with the who-whats and when-says, possibly even the simple how-mays. There’s no reason to fear tears or spillings with clouds because dolls know that the skies continue with the wind, the smallest of breezes capable of defining a thousand souls.

(Caressed by the heavens, dolls would no longer need to atone.)

But, as all things work, the world plays by an order.

Sawdust floats and sand sinks.

So donkeys fly, and dolls drown.

Together, the lines of titles blur. Because, for all anyone knows, he’s always been a boy with a kind heart, accompanied by a glum companion, kindred souls atop the hill, the stream below beating steady as it looped around them.

On some days, it’s a definition.

On others, it’s just a stream. 

There’s nothing good about me, the donkey begins, the winds picking up the way they do on Winds-days, his tail threatening to sweep away with the dance of leaves, The world just carries you around. It makes me miss the ground.

The boy holds him close, quite used to being a tether by now. Nonsense, he says in that not-quite-yet-almost-so arrogant voice, his fingers combing through his companion’s mane. Because from up there, you can kiss the sky. His hand falters, echoes of another time reminding him how hollow dolls could be. Don’t you think that’s kind of nice?  

Though the boy gazes at something only he can see, the donkey lays his head on his lap, understanding. 

I’m the one that’s worthless, he says, voice a steady line. How many boys live without hearts? The donkey presses against his chest, and he laughs. Dolls are only filled with sand, it seems. He lifts his head, counting the rays of light. All I know how to do is drown.  

Well, the donkey says, voice too quiet for a bray, That’s not too bad. After all, his eyes begin to close, breath steadying with a coming slumber, The stars sit at your feet. I think that’s pretty neat.

There’s a smile on his lips, and the boy nods, his companion already fast asleep. Perhaps we can make a trade, he says, one arm stretched towards the skies, I’ll throw you stars, and you’ll grant me dreams.  

If dolls could float, perhaps they’d find new reasons to gloat, for a thousand new hearts could be spun from stardust undone. 

If donkeys could sink, perhaps they’d find new reasons to think, for a million old memories could be twined from minerals refined. 

But, in the meantime, while donkeys fly and dolls cry, it’d be in the best interest to create a compromise—this is something they both agree.

Don’t worry, it isn’t all that sad, because donkeys and dolls know how to be glad.

It may come in the form of a boy and a toy, or even a line with sweetened wine. And, as long as sawdust floats and sand sinks, the look-heres and away-theres bind the space in between, their exchange a comforting gleam.

Now, time to repair your seams.