Push back black bath of sleep;
I have these 3 am shakes.
I hear the water skin
moving in the next room,
drops of cotton coil to cold leg,
& salt lamp cracks on,
pink broadcast against the hour.
Dreams retreat on the board;
the moon swims in the frost.
Where are you?

i spent sleepless nights alone in my bed,
caccooned in white sheets
reaching
for you,
resting my fingertips on myself in an
attempt to mimic what you may do
if you were here.

not out of lust but
longing for you
and your touch,
your presence,
your
scent,
your gaze.

without your body, soft but solid
and your petal-veined skin

hr.

Here I am
once again..
It's 3 a.m
a rhyming game...

Daylight conventions taught
dictates all the 'ought's,
I couldn't pour a daylight thought
against the conventional odds.

An acquaintance, he died,
Sympathy I tried;
Empathy I tried;
but my feelings were dried.

I wonder why,
did I cry?
Not out of sadness
but of emptiness.

3 a.m is too good a time,
where the air is sublime,
to be wasted on sleeping
instead of weeping.

3 a.ms often make me wonder
if age is really just a number
on a waiting lift to mortality
or a mere human banality.

Here I am again
pouring my pain
for no gain
playing the 3 a.m rhyming game.