The night is cold.
Kind of bitter. I don’t know why …
Probably it has lost its warmth.
Probably it is in pain, of something slipping away.
As if, trying to search for a lost treasure,
A treasure that’s worth more than constellations,
A treasure that’s worth nothing to anyone else other than the night.
The night is silent.
Kind of like a lament. For having become the night.
Probably it misses being the morning,
Probably it needs to mean the same dawn to someone’s eyes.
As if trying to stash away all the hurt,
In a dark, empty corner.
As if trying to keep all those words on bay, that mean everything yet nothing…
The night is solemn.
Waiting to be the morning again. Waiting to be itself again.
Probably it wants to hold on to dawn, but doesn’t know how.
Probably, it wants to love the dawn and its skies, in it’s own twisted, selfish, dark way.
And it doesn’t know how.
Probably the night, the silent, dark, cold night – wants too many things.
And doesn’t know how to get any. That’s why it is silent.
The night is lovely too.
And kind of ordinary. Among the more extra-ordinary nights.
Like every lover, it believed it is extra-ordinary. But it is not.
Today it has shattered its own reflection.
Cold. Solemn. Silent.
The night is, tonight.