the whispers of the wanders
sound like soft rain.
I pray I will be able to trick my brain
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.
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.