Reformation

I've got to give up my night owlish ways, but it's so hard to give up the night. Cold nights and cool nights and nights when it's balmy enough to let the walls breathe. Nights cornered between four walls and a long hallway, nights haunting the perimeters, nights spent threading bare the carpet in solitary tango. Nights spent falling over furniture and wreaking havoc on the internets, nights of wine drenched carpets, and baths with the accidental shard of glass. Nights wandering the neighbourhood peeking in other people's windows. Nights that accidentally slide unbidden into mornings, nights between girlhood and wraithhood, nights of jasmine, nights of munificent moon, nights of tears and nights of love, however transcient. Late nights in bars, last stragglers, last gulps, last songs, a last kiss, a late night bath. Nights of the three AM dance on the bar, nights of the last line in the last bindle, and nights of the deep and regretful pull off of the last cigarette, nights of the last condom, nights of the bottom of the bottle and the end of the record. The bittersweet nights of error, and the cabbie taunting his captive, but waiting until the key is in the door before driving off to the next late night fare. Less glamorous nights of throwing up into a cupped hand in the back seat of a cab. Less glamorous nights of solid rejection, or a glorious rebellion that ends in simpering catastrophe. Nights of restaurants, nights of dive bars. Nights of music and nights in silence. Nights of hues of virgin blue and nights of iron grey and nights of impertable black, nights without stars and nights without a moon.

And all of them gone from me now.

Now I will be a creature of the dawn, and I had forgotten how beautiful it is, crossing the Golden Gate at 6:30, when the sky is breaking in the East, so pink, so new.