I've gotten so used to its frequent visits that I'm (begrudgingly, mind you) starting to embrace it and think of it as a friend or lover. So much so that I miss it when it isn't here. So, like lovers sometimes do... I wrote a poem regarding it and the night. Speaking of myself in third person.
here she is again
in her thrift-store dress
caressing a cheap bottle of wine
waiting for her lover to arrive
but he's never on time
what is it that attracts her
to this shadow with no shame?
she can't put a name on it
but it compels her
and jails her
with its ebony eyes
and its dark embrace
until there are... no more days
she meets the dawn
on her way to bed at five,
turns out the light and shuts her eyes
to its glimmering glare,
not caring for its too-bright smile
or its come-hither stare.
she knows she should
have the courage to face
the day's blaring light, head on
embrace the rays that sneak
into her room
and caress her face at morn
but she fears its long-lit hours
spent awake in her head, alone
so instead, she shuts out the day
and waits once again
for her lover, the night, to come.
Odd poem, I know but (as in yesterday's post),
I seem to find love in everything.