The Night

Sometimes, the night wakes me.

When the night wakes me I lie in bed and march through life in my mind, smiling at all the lovely things, frowning at all the things I wish the day had kept to itself.

I don’t know why the night chooses me as its ‘sometimes companion’. Perhaps it knows that I will always give it a chance to speak its mind.

Perhaps it thinks that I might like to speak my mind with it.

Which I would, of course;

If only the night called itself ‘the day’ and wore the sun bright and warm in its sky.

Then I’d be happy to share my life with it.

Then I’d be happy for the night to wake me.