You look up and it's like you see the world through a fish-eye lens because suddenly the sky is so big and you're so small. And your feet struggle to touch the ground, and when they do, your toes touch the jagged edges of the bottom so you have to be gentle. You spread your arms like in the movies except you don't have a lover to hold them out and marvel at the sky with you. You feel weird using an old-fashioned-sounding word like lover, but it's romantic, so you use it. The sky is spread out around you and suddenly you feel vulnerable, like something is coming to get you. You look up and it's so, so bright even though there's no sun, and the sky begins to cry. And it's coming down everywhere and there's something powerful about its tears that's beautiful. The sky weeps even though you're looking straight up at it, and you wonder why there isn't anyone to kiss if you lean your head back. At first it's okay when the tears come down soft and easy and gently roll down your face into the cold water; it would be so easy to cry and for nobody to know. But then it starts coming down heavier and it's starting to hurt when they hit your pale, cold skin. The sky closes in on you, and it scares you so much that you stop looking up. You hear thunder and scramble to get out of the water, your bare feet scraping against the rocks. Two older girls are watching you and they whisper in a different language. As you get out, you feel disappointed in them for not knowing what to look at. They were watching you when they could have looked up and seen the whole world crying.