Three A.M.

Night after sleepless night, I waste away in thoughts of you. 

At three a.m. your voice is clear to me and I can feel your embrace.

I’m intoxicated, drunk on memories of your perfection.

Your silver-tongued voice whispering sweet nothings in my easily corrupted ear. 

When I close my eyes at three a.m., I can almost pretend you’re with me. 

Your warm, soft lips fluttering like humming bird’s wings across the sensitive flesh of my cheeks, my eyelids, 

Your delicate musician’s fingers getting tangled in the curls of my honey dew hair. 

In the darkness, my hungry fingers search the sheets for your sweet comfort, your alluring, resplendent embrace. 

When I pull them back to me, empty, I retreat into the deepest corners of my mind, where the roses you planted have wilted.

At three a.m., I am alone, trapped in the snares of your crooked love.