The NightPosted: April 18, 2012
I have run out of pencils, I have run out of paints. I have run out of books, I have run out of water. When will the night be over?
The darkness reaches in like a stink of a rotten egg and bleeds black into the bright corners of the living room, I am afraid. I am afraid. I wait until dawn, but when dawn comes I am alone. A bus moves by the house, the bakers and the coffee makers bring their trucks around the corners. The engines sound like screeching hawks perched on my air conditioner, eight stories high. I look up but I do not see the hawks there. Should I go walking? At what time do the respectable people come out? They would know from my bare ankles that these are sleep clothes. There is spit on the streets. But I must not cause your concern when you wake up and the house is empty.
I wait for dawn, I imagine a yellow ray and a smile, a drift of butter colored cotton down rolling around the city skyline to welcome me and gleam through this little window. But when dawn arrives, the clouds are purple, electric, and menacing. I break out into a cold sweat. The dawn is just darkness made naked and horrible.
When will you open my door? When will you open my door? And how will I know if it is you or the ghost with the green hand? Open the door and invite me to bed, to sink into the morning’s rumpled safe sheets. Already, the blankets are warmed by your body. Briefly we will share the mattress. Soon my fears shall wilt like vegetables too long in the pot.