By Leah Mueller

You’re stretched out on the floor. The ceiling looks like sky.

The sun no longer remembers how to spread its beam of warmth to your submerged bones. You’ve given up waiting for its return.

Sometimes, its heat pierced your skin like molten spikes. On other occasions, it was almost imperceptible, like the faint brush of summer clothing.

You’ll lie here until the last beam parks behind the horizon and shuts off its engine.

Then your molecules will dissolve, one by one, popping like bubbles until they become pure oxygen. Peace and silence. You’ve waited your whole life for this.

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona.  She is the author of nine prose and poetry books, published by numerous small presses. Her latest chapbook, “Land of Eternal Thirst” (Dumpster Fire Press) was released in 2021.  Leah’s work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at