The Morning After...

              It seems to me that nights are never the right length. Either endlessly long, or breathlessly short, there is no middle ground. Long nights are the worst; the nights made up of wide eyes, restless dreams,  and troubled thoughts. Those are the nights the sun can't come soon enough. Those are the nights you pray away the moon, but he stays, grinning devilishly at you. There's nothing you can do, but dream about those other nights. 

              You've had them before: nights that hang gracefully on your heart, that speed by so quickly, you'd swear they were only a dream. The night you first meet a lover, or steal a glance from across the room. The nights you twirl, dancing happily into the sky. The nights you dream of other worlds, and forget how closely reality is lurking. Never long enough, these nights fade with the stars all too soon. 

              I'm not sure there is such a thing as a perfect night, too long, or too short, you're always wishing for something...