;

I’m finding that I’m not much of a morning person.
Or a daytime person for that matter.
Maybe it’s my windows, but sunlight is stale and overbearing. I’m thinking I only appreciate sunlight in pieces. Like, when cut and softened by the horizon. Or as flecks in the night sky - (not the usual blinking/moving ones, but the more distant, fate-tangled ones). Or when carefully collected and brushed brisk by the moon’s sickle and wash.

The night is when lights are isolated; when they learn to love. You told me, push something into the dark and it will own even the faintest spark. Because what are they then if not for the other? If not of the other? 

The night is often easier on my lungs, too.