High Tide (Day 6 Of NaPoWriMo)

The clock struck midnight

A tiny alarm holding the might of the night

In its disc and jittering hands.

Her body churned into high tide

Sleep becoming foreign.

The moon pulled and tugged at her skeleton

Fingers folded around sheets

Silk and cool against skin of goosebump palette.

It would take a particular pair of warm hands

And loyal lips

To return her to comfort

And dreamland

A gentler wave curve.

He rolled over in bed

Two pairs of neon eyes

Shining into the night

Brighter than any star dared to emulate.

He whispered to her

Palms pressed into pigment.

Soon the sun would rise

And all would be fine.

She just needed a reminder

That he was there

And not a ghost after all.

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