There were few things about the night that appealed to her. 

For one,its coat that relayed no apology for the absolute blackness,how the world had to cope without color and regale the skies with artificial lights and make up monsters for children to survive an otherwise uneventful routine, and its howl,the voices she thought whispered calming melodies in a language her ancestors might have understood.

The night was assured company and a predictable music next to her absent and hectic time in the day,she felt less alone and her skin and fingers felt more alive, a good feeling traveled from the ground and into her chest, like the remnants of an old, but now warm and neglectable heartbreak.    

Would it suffice, this boy’s love? For all of his talk and sameness, how his words and each coming or going felt tainted by a tiresome familiarity, she felt departed unless he was in grief, warped in quietness and eyes open, seeking but unsure, suddenly they were connected, by a nothingness they both shared, a moment that seemed unbreakable, sealed by the night’s charm.

All the time wasted on age and growing no wiser than her littlest self, the energy spent to scavenge for the stones that would make up her pebbled path whose pretty, accommodating trail lead her feet onto a slow, painless journey into nowhere at all.

A day-old wish to be dead or thoughtless, the wanting kept her awake and distracted from the sprawling dreams that could have kept her safe and part of a casual, passing night who wavered not and stood its every shift.

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