holding handsUsed to mean so many things — the quiet night, the stillness of solitude, dominion over all the quiet spaces while the rest of the world slept. A walk outside, sneaking out through a window even. Nothing malicious. The night, mine.

Now, the press of awake things that will not sleep. Alive things past their natural lifespan. Change not soon enough. And just awake, awake, awake.

I don’t care over the loss of sleep. Who stole from me the joy of the solitude of the night? Where can I find you to take it back.

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