The moon is a cliche'd golden disc. A smog moon, sung sweet. An oily sphere of opal hung low in the sky.

I raise my head to point at the night light with my chin. Neck muscles taut. I hold a lungful of a long, greasy breath. An inhalation drawn too deep. Too full of caffeine toxicity and loud noise. My chest grows heavy with the frequency of bite.

I cannot easily release this drawn gulp of evening.
Through clenched teeth, I know to hold it is certainty. To hold it is expiration.

11:42 p.m. - 2014-08-11