Milk and honey

It engulfs you like a blanket.

Cold but inviting, covering your tracks, keeping you from peeping eyes.

The Night.

That night that I can’t get nowhere else but there.

I keep thinking back to it.

How I miss it, coveted, dark until you can’t see past your arms, without a hint of light.

Only stars break it when they show, only the thunder from the storms, only the glowing waters of the lakes and shores.

Their waters dark, driving you in, cold as the ice,making you feel warmth in their glow once you settled in.

Many lifetimes have passed, and I remember it like it was yesterday, like I was just swimming in those waters, like I’m still riding through those forests.

I still taste the sweetness of the fruits of the trees, I still smell the iron on the blood, and I still taste the raw of the meat.

The hunt.

I still feel the thrill just talking about it, my soul waiting at the ready, claws and teeth bare, as if I’m sitting, hunched down until something takes off for me to follow.

I still remember the music, the clothes adorned to look like starry nights, drapped with gold and glass, and everything else in the halls.

Not that I took part in it.

I miss it dearly, and every so often, I turn the light out and close my eyes, and I can nearly feel the dark, nearly.

But it is not that tangible, not that thick, not that covering.

Non the less is still dark, and I welcome it, for I thrive in the dark.