Warm

They hover above my head when I go to sleep, a million tiny orbs glowing and pulsating, brightness doubling when I look away. I don’t normally use them, but they have this silent hum of light in the dark, not audible but almost tangible. If I squint my eyes, the light splinters and shoots off in thin spikes, trails away and disappears. They dance in the corners of my eyes like stars and blur and fade into an ambiguously directed line, an unclear glow out of my direct line of vision. The metal bed frame looks harsh and raw next to their soft flicker, the bed’s black a contrast to their white-yellow. If I turn my head a certain way, I can see their reflection in the window, as they appear to soar outside the glass, away with every slight twitch of my eyes. A thousand small eyes float quietly in the black of the room, resting their stare on me as I sleep and although I know they can’t really see me, I can almost feel the weight of their gaze, and somehow it’s warm.