dancing for the moonlight

Some nights, I wake up, without reason, to find moonbeams sleeping next to me. They come uninvited through the flimsy curtains, these silver slivers of light that radiate off the dark walls and cover the pillow with a shimmering sheath of undiscovered truth. I lie on my bed, watching them intertwine on my skin like lovers on ice. Sometimes, I make shadow puppets on the ceiling, dipping my fingers into a pool of moonlight and bending them aimlessly. But when I get bored of making intangible shapes, I rest my feet on the hard floor and stand up, feeling the smooth wooden ridges press against my toes. I take a few steps and lift the linen curtains with my fingertips. I peer into the bare sky and discover it, a lonely circle of radiance casting its luminous roots onto the dull pavement outside. It hangs just above the window, its naked allure daring me to reach out and enclose my fingers around it. I feel tempted to leap out onto the dimly lit sidewalks and dance for the full moon, drumming my bare feet against the gravel in rhythm to the night. But instead, I just stand there against the wall, bathing in the glow of secondhand shadows, and waiting for the moment to pass.