Night Nothings

Sweet nothings, but not so sweet, just raw—bitter with regret, salty with tears, sweet with memory. Sweet nothings, but not nothing—they are everything you missed the chance to say, to hurl at an unfaithful lover, to whisper to the one you once thought would be the love of your life. Now you borrow the cloak of night to chant your song, borrow the magic of midnight to craft a curse sealed with a kiss. But that kiss better burn because, deep down, you are raging still. Like sparks your tearful words rise into the night, confusing fireflies, envying the stars. Like sparks they fade into nothing, a mere wisp of smoke in a sea of clouds. Drunk on darkness you find your tears almost romantic, which only makes you cry more. But the morning will be better because weeping is the best kind of sleeping potion. Morning will be better because oblivion is the quilt under which we dream and you will fall asleep very, very soon.