Midnight Frost

My dreams are kissed by midnight frost that glistens on the windowpane. My fingers are cold and tremble as I sleep. The currents of slumber are clear and cool, and my mind submerges into the endless depths. In my dreams, the silver of the moon trickles into rivers below, and the moon, drained of its colour, has an ink-black glow. The moonlight casts shadows on my outstretched hand as starlight drips onto bare oak branches and turns them into aspen. The sky begins to ripple as sheer cloth does in sunlight and the moon begins fade. I grasp onto the fraying edges but they unravel and slip between my fingers. My eyes open. There is nothing behind the thread-bare sky but white light. The lace curtains of my room billow in the breeze that drifts through the open window. Outside, a bird sings. The sun is warm on my skin and shimmers in my hair, but the air still carries memories of the midnight frost.


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