I don’t like sleep, and sleep doesn’t like me. So instead of my head finding a pillow at night, it meets an inky indigo haze in the clouds and jaded parades around my suburban streets. I find alabaster in midnight astronomy. My freedom is gifted by darkness, wrapped in moonshine, the small hours giving green lights. Insomnia takes me under its feathered wing, but it doesn’t sing me lullabies. Instead it tells stories of street lamps and gold glare, with one lux, bold with happiness, through window panes to street corners, in parking lots and fast food orders at 2AM. There is no need to close my eyes to dream, the stardust paints us pictures on onyx skies. In the backseats of old beemers we move through town, the streets dead but we are alive. City lights twinkle a million miles away, as we are becoming supernovae, but we’re burning too bright and exploding too quick. With the sun rising, our radiance is fleeting. We slowly die out and drag ourselves through another day, until constellations and galaxies kiss our cheeks and greet us again. We are old, familiar friends.

Written by Gillian Bynum

Contributing Writer