The night is for the word,
for soft and easy whispers,
for an estranged lover indulged 
for want of light, light, light.
The night is for the word,
devout, grim, lying low between
a piercing scream
and a crinkling sheet
two doors down the hall
with something underneath.
The night is for the word,
because the sun (And some
3.8 x 10^26 watts of power/sec)
would cook the meaning out,
leaving nothing to digest.
The night is for the word,
for all that makes life live
like memory, loss, and change
Change,
Change.
The word is for the night,
for waging war
​​on all that inky silence.

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