The moon keeps her own hours. Tonight, I am borrowing them.
I picture Hecate at the threshold, torch in hand, while I turn down the lights. The crossroads can wait. I do not need to choose the rest of my life before bed.
I can leave a message unanswered. Put the list in a drawer. Let the pillow take the weight of my head.
For the Black woman who has become everybody’s emergency contact: may someone ask what would comfort you. May you have an answer. May you receive it.
Tonight’s small devotion: a glass of water. A loosened jaw. One hand over my heart.
Hecate, keep the threshold. Moon, keep your hours. I am going to rest.
