I wake from a lucid dream of paper hearts and cold fingers to the sound of fireflies in a jam jar. Their light casts itself through me; it moves the shadows of my life. The puppets on the walls regale in stories of little deaths, sighing words and slow walks.  

I am lost in a world without constellations, the taste of air bemuses me, and the stars shift form, asking to be named, desiring certainty, jealous of my carved hands. I have only whispers of tormenting nights to share with them. I have wept for them, for my own name provides no consolation. 
My hands move, they are shadow makers, they cast images of the night I longed to live, the night I sung out to any God willing to listen.  

I tire of unstable light, of the mocking shadows, of my hands, the stories, the air, my name. 
I wait for the morning; I have heard stories of it. I have prayed for the sun, possessed by my own spirit, I have danced for the end of night, for stable illumination. 
I close my eyes, listen to the fluttering of tiny wings, and I dream of the prophesized return of dawn, in hope of seeing why I chose for this moment to remain in the dark.