Bed Light

I move in and out.

They move in.

Then they move out.

My bed light is the moon now.

From a horizontal vantage point,

I watch the sun escort the day

out of the sky—

applause fading behind it.

The co-star is on its way.

The moon becomes my bed light

when the room is darker inside.

I put the North Star aside.

A shooting star survives

above the level of disguise.

If you looked closely,

you’d see the spark in my eyes—

you’d know the moon is my bed light.

I’m a gemstone,

refreshed by what I’ve survived,

aligned just in time.

Light on my skin—obsidian,

maybe onyx.

This is what I promised myself:

one day,

the moon would be my bed light.