Streetlight Dreams

Sometimes. 

When it's dark out. 

And stars are only little burning gaseous masses from somewhen far away. 

And streetlights flare with manufactured starlight, dying in neon with their ancient counterparts. 

And the wind chaps lips and chills raw skin with cold, not even having the decency to bear comfortably anthropomorphized teeth or claws. 

When the background hum of electricity and distant blaring car alarms seems loud enough to drown out any music the night might have had. 

When trees don't whisper and the shadows on the moon are just craters. 

When there is no magic left in the universe. 

I roll over on my pillow. 

I take your hand and place it on my cheek. 

And I fall asleep.