musings on a sleepless night

The moon outside my bedroom window isn't really the moon, but it emits the same kind of light, pale and insistent. It's brighter, as though you've cast a silver fishing line into the sky and pulled it hand over hand until the moon floated nearby like a timid but curious jellyfish. I sit up in bed, fresh from dreaming of the gentle roll of a rowboat, wondering why you would risk placing the jellyfish (with its terrible sting) so close to my tender, sleeping flesh. But the jellyfish over the bow of my boat isn't really the moon, and you will never be there to man the oars, to take me away from its prying, indefatigable light.