missing you.

A pulsing dark underside of Earth fills with light; your light. I count to twelve thousand as my eyes acquaint to darkness. I am a victim to the forecast that predicts you -- will you rise again? I am a tree beneath your sturdy rays, silently faltering beside you. A blossoming something, closing my eyes for an empty night, without me you are purposeless. I am the night to complete you, jealous of the societies that treasure you.