3am....
At 3am the silent echoes
Of a dead street beg
For one more round.
Hope is the loudest compound
And this alloy turns to rust
In the corners of the bed.
Imagine your mouth salivating at
The edges of a dream the mind
Refuses to replicate.
Fortitude becomes the body bent
Into a question mark after logic.
One pillow tries to muffle
The fingers gunning down
Every optimistic bone
Asking for happiness
Over education.
How the madness at 3am
Swells behind the ears.
How the pages flip in
The fan of ashes in an
Unmade bed.
Never been real.
Never fit in an old
Crease of familiarity.
Never been a smooth cover
With the bumps of everything
Swept under.
Here again.
Back in the lucid land
Of a decision.
Laid down battle scars
To the weight of tomorrow’s leaving.
Sleep solidifies mantras from
Marked pages of a message thread.
The thoughts don’t leave
At 3am.