The night misses you, so I am sending this message along. It misses the way the hairs on the back of your neck stood up in its mint-leave-magical cool. It misses the moon multiplying itself in your irises, and it misses the dusting of street lamp light on your shoulders like settled sawdust. It asks over and over, spelled out in the stars, “Wasn’t that you lying in the middle of the football field in the darkness?”. It wants you out on the stone steps again — the ones that appear to ripple out from the mouth of the library’s giant doors in the night. It wants you out where you watch all the shadow-shapes turn into the fear itself. It wants you out where it can envelope you and introduce you to your own heartbeat again — it wants you to learn to love it both when it is speeding up and slowing down. So come out longer past the daylight hours. The night misses you.
