The Soul of an Insomniac

Imagine the moon like this—this bright in the sky. Imagine the blade of light that falls through the window now, slashes my glass desk, deflects at the touch of my hand, is not cool, is not warm, is not a weight, is yet alive.

There are reasonable people who claim the moon is nothing but dead, a stone in the sky.

There are those who like their words straight up, their stories quickened.

But I have the soul of an insomniac and the eyes of my mother, and I pour color down, where I can, where I am. Too old now to apologize for living my one life out loud.