10-08-2023, 12:42 AM
AND I KNOW LIFE GOES ON BUT I MISS YOU IN THE DARK
It went without saying that he loved the night.
He appreciated the sunlight, of course; he knew how to savor the warmth of honeyed rays against his skin, and noticed the way the dew-touched grass glistened in the golden light of dawn. It did not escape him that there was a certain kind of beauty to be found when cold, bright light filtered through the autumn-stripped branches of trees, or across a glistening expanse of water—as if diamonds had been scattered across it.
But he was made for the night.
The day made him feel restless, exposed, and he knew his star-covered skin looked out of place in the afternoon light. With his silver eyes looking upward he could not control the quiet sigh that brushed past his lips, staring as if he might will the sun to set faster if he stared at it. Nightfall was still hours away.
Adjusting his feathered wings, he sweeps his gaze across the meadow. There is nothing and no one in particular that he searches for (perhaps his twin—the moon to his stars—though he does not expect to see him in the meadow this afternoon), but that does not stop him from hoping that there will be something, someone, to distract him until the night comes.
He appreciated the sunlight, of course; he knew how to savor the warmth of honeyed rays against his skin, and noticed the way the dew-touched grass glistened in the golden light of dawn. It did not escape him that there was a certain kind of beauty to be found when cold, bright light filtered through the autumn-stripped branches of trees, or across a glistening expanse of water—as if diamonds had been scattered across it.
But he was made for the night.
The day made him feel restless, exposed, and he knew his star-covered skin looked out of place in the afternoon light. With his silver eyes looking upward he could not control the quiet sigh that brushed past his lips, staring as if he might will the sun to set faster if he stared at it. Nightfall was still hours away.
Adjusting his feathered wings, he sweeps his gaze across the meadow. There is nothing and no one in particular that he searches for (perhaps his twin—the moon to his stars—though he does not expect to see him in the meadow this afternoon), but that does not stop him from hoping that there will be something, someone, to distract him until the night comes.
A V I O R