the whispers of the wanders

sound like soft rain.

I pray I will be able to trick my brain

into believing.

At 2:34 in the morning, anything is possible.

My mind motors on, running over the little things,

the way a girl smiled at me, an offhanded comment about my hair,

compliments on my sweater,

"Did you make it?" asks a boy who has observed me knitting.

No.

But I give him a sugared laugh in his attempt to be friendly.

At 2:34 in the morning, I set my manners aside.

They lie like glasses upon a nightstand.

I let my thoughts rage and ache and burn through every invisible page

of the novel that rattles inside of me.

I dream up poetry, prose, review to-do lists and essay notes,

and then, as I cool from a fiery day,

I allow the smoke of my reasoning to drift up to the ceiling,

like a cigarette smoldering in the night.

And the ash falls upon me, burying me in a blanket of gray snow,

now, only now, I let my indulgence go,

like a child sneaking peeks through Christmas wrapping.

At 2:34 in the morning, I am allowed to think of you.

I trace your lips with my words,

script the shade of your eyes with letters,

profess the deep yearning of my soul,

you, who know me by but a name,

a shadow between the trees,

my face for you always ready, always set

in the chance you glance my way

and my grin of joy will be displayed.

At 2:34 in the morning, a worm bites through my fantasies.

You do not exist.

You are but a wisp, a clock that doesn't tick,

a magical prince in search of a shoe.

You're as real to me as a paper doll,

as human as the silent stories I tell myself

to drown out the raining whispers

that there is someone, here, whom I truly like,

I haven't become A-sexual or turned into a d*ke.

At 2:34 in the morning, truth is relative.

At 2:34 in the morning, for a moment,

you kiss my lips.

At 2:34 in the morning, we share this sweet moment

of lust, and you are gone.

Because it's 2:47 now, and so I'm too old to go on pretending.

My fragmented heart doesn't need you for mending.

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