It’s 4am.
When it’s 4am, the past sinks in.
The fights that ended with the taste
Of cheap wine and tears, and the endless
Hours of violent sobbing due to the
knowledge
That it’s all over. Not to mention the
seconds each
Spent listening to the same songs, over and
over, and
The meals you re-cook to remind you of that
one evening
Where he told you he loved you, and you
said it back. Or the
Profanity that left your mouth as you drive
in the car he helped
You fix; merely because you miss the way he
used to swear when
Everyone cut him off. When it’s 4am, everything
sinks in much further
Than your bones; it sinks into your soul so
far you get dragged along with it.
When 4 am says “You can’t do this anymore,”
you believe it.