It’s three am, the overused hour,
the star of so many poetry pieces and sad songs,
and yet here I lie writing about it once more.
I am in my bed, my blankets hug me
and the spring moon shines in through the window
I do not cry, I am not suffering, just suspended in a no-sleep abyss.
My eyes do not want to close and forget about today,
they stare at the ceiling looking for you,
blinking, their opening and closing a loud contrast against the silence of the night.
Sleep seems to have command over my body,
my limbs lie lifelessly beside me
their content suggest that I too should be asleep.
But my mind knows, like an untold proven theory,
that if I sleep I will miss seeing you
and at that fact my eyes stay open.
And you come to me like a shadow on the wall
that extends and gently touches me,
and you kiss me as you start to fade and leave me breathless.
The night air that enters through my open window
is your sweet voice whispering into my heart
promising me tomorrow, a fresh and beautiful start.
But it is tomorrow and I am alone,
alone in a room that you once occupied too,
I will not receive any tomorrows from you.
It’s three am, the overused hour
and I commence to understand the reason behind all the songs and poems;
three am is the perfect hour to speak with the phantoms of love’s past.