A Child Lost in Midnight

I whisper to the cosmos,

but the stars do not answer.

They blink like tired old men,

forgetting my name,

forgetting I was ever here.

I think the moon might be my mother.

She watches from far away,

never touching, never speaking,

just glowing, just waiting.

She sends me a message in silver beams,

but I cannot read her alphabet of light.

I draw hearts in the dust with my fingernail,

deep, deep, until they bleed red paint.

Maybe someone will find them,

think they are important,

think they mean something.

Maybe someone will ask,

"Who made these?"

and someone else will say,

"A child, lost in midnight."

The shadows are my only friends.

They play chase with me,

stretching long when I run,

folding small when I hide.

But they always win,

wrapping their soft arms around me,

pressing my bones into the cold ground.

I told my reflection to talk to me today,

but she only stared.

She has my mouth,

but she will not use it.

She has my eyes,

but she does not cry when I do.

Maybe she knows something I don’t.

Maybe she has already disappeared.

The wind hums old lullabies in my ears,

notes drifting between my ribs,

settling like fireflies in my hollow belly.

I hum back,

a broken little tune,

off-key, off-time,

but still mine.

If I could climb high enough,

touch the ceiling of the sky,

maybe I would find a door,

or a crack,

or a tiny pinhole

where I could slip through

and become something else.

Something golden,

something breathing,

something someone would notice.

But for now,

I will sit in the darkness,

press my hands against the cold walls,

and whisper my name

to the stars

until they finally

whisper back.