Run to the moon

I lost a day to a curious night – how I suffer for the play and no pause; the food sat too heavy, and my mind’s never ready to admit to the sleep it implores.

Some find a way to recover their might; how they rest before dusk is an art. Even when I’m deserving, I find it unnerving to arrive the same day I depart.

Instead I pray to a mug (held too tight; how it burns me awake through the palms) to speed up the sun from a crawl to a run; pray the moon scoops me up in her arms.