3:45

it’s 3:45 a.m., and I think of the words I could write to you to show you how alive I am, to show you the force with which my blood still runs. it’s 3:45 a.m., and I think of the showers outside to show you the downpour within, to show you the strength of the storm that consumes me. it’s 3:45 a.m., and I write with the fire of a restless night, with the tip of my pen pressed into the crack of a wound, with my temple resting against the cold floor. it’s 3:45 a.m., and I think of you, waiting for your world at the end of the street of how our story ends before it begins, of how the siren’s song plays only inside my head. burn, green wood. burn, slowly. it’s 3:45 a.m., and I think of the best poem I could write for you; it would never be the best of me, it would never be the best of you. it’s 3:45 a.m. it’s 3:45 a.m. and I still think of you and I still think... it would never be the best of me. it would never be the best of you. burn, green wood, burn, slowly. burn slowly.