The night is young
new
beautiful
silent
joyous
It holds so many opportunities, and just as the flower who only opens her petals when the moonlight embraces them, so I am parallel.
I thrive in the night. It is my time, my hour, my seconds that only I have dominion over as I rise from the petals of my bed and am lit by the candlelight.
The waves of glow bounce off my nightgown slowly, slowly, and the undulating satin reverberates off my long legs as it dances with the faint breeze flowing through my room. I smile weakly.
Moving to the window, I can see for miles- a stretch of green quilting left there by God and his court, the velvet of the stitching vibrant in the light of the pale moon. It is unfinished.
The candle in the sill below me wanes slightly, and I blink. Reaching down, my fingers touch wax and guide it to my lips.
Fire reflects in my eyes the passion I have for such nights, for the silence that is filled with the deafening meekness of night sounds, for the musky, dark scent of my attic bedroom, from the taste of the faint dust lining the air.
I sigh, and smoke infiltrates my nostrils quietly, without invitation but without respite. The light is gone. My fingers quiver as I hold the wax, cold and lifeless now, and I sigh again. Quieter.
The night is brand new. I have only to light but one more match in order to explore it more fully. There is naught I cannot do when I hold in my hand this sheen that will light the recesses of the dark that haunt my room. My life. My eyes. And my fears.
Written from the perspective of a young lady in the olden days when she cannot sleep. Simple, really.