after dark: wanderer

letter from the Night;

found folded beneath your pillow;

ink smells faintly of smoke and jasmine

beloved,

what is it with you? out there again, wandering the edge of yourself, dragging your breath like a candle through my streets. do you think i haven't noticed?

each night, i watch you press your hands to windows like a ghost waiting for permission to enter. you ask, always silently: what is it with the night? and i smile, quietly, because i know the answer.

i know how the breeze clings to your skin like a lover that doesn't yet know how to leave. how the ghosts you carry press gently against your back, not to harm, only to be held.

i open the forests for you. i hush the world, so the crickets can play their lonely music. i put every mortal to sleep just so you can have the silence to feel like yourself again. 

i've watched you stare at the lampposts like they're trying to win against the moon. i see how the fog softens everything, even your grief. you think you're lost, but you are only becoming.

even now, when the road pulls you toward the end of something unnamed, you are not vanishing. 

you call it insomnia, i call it returning to me. you belong to the dusk-light; to the soft ache just before desire, to the hour when even the stars feel close enough to speak to.

let the sun have its worshippers. let the noise wait until morning. here in my arms, you may flicker. you may burn. you may be still. fall if you must. all the best stars do.

and when you hit the bottom, i will be there - not to catch you, but to remind you, you were never meant to land. only to fall, beautifully.

yours always,

the night