The sun is garish
and always yelling –
a loud exhibitionist
a tactile party guest
drunk on their own stories –
it spills around the room
touching everything
behind my thin eyelids
with hot, glittering hands.
We prefer the dark –
the simmering violet void of night
that leaves the vulgar
roaring remnants of day
clinging to the edges –
a night that does not
force herself upon you,
but pulls you close.
You lean in –
her chasmic depths are moonless.
ataraxicat 