nightlights
Saturday, Feb. 23, 2013 @ 11:42 p.m.

A streetlight outside my window spills uneven incandescence onto the snow, and its reflection -- every reflection of every city light -- brightens the sky and dulls the stars. Tonight and always, a cloudless Edmonton is asleep under a hazy orange blanket. Nothing to see, and nothing look forward to except an uneven rooftop horizon. Homesick. So homesick for the view I had.

I've spent ten nights under this roof, crying until I was too exhausted to stay awake. Ten short and fitful sleeps. Ten lost mornings. Ten distracted days, dreaming of smooth stones under bare feet; of home. Laying on the floor with my eyes on the ceiling instead of the sky, sober and deadpan and wasted. Surrounded by strangers and empty houses, trying not to forget who I am and what I want and how I plan to get it. I've been sad for so long that it's difficult to focus.

But at least I wasn't alone. I could see the stars from my window and the aurora behind clouds, and I felt comforted.

Those comforts are lost to me here.

So I'm waiting.