At 12 a.m., I weave fantasies of you and I,
Yet fear they'll never be more than dreams in the sky.
Deep down, my instincts reveal the bitter truth,
You from the sun, and me from the moon, our worlds aloof.
Still, I ponder, and thoughts of you persist,
A soul I wish I could truly comprehend, exist.
But who are we, if not strangers under the same midnight sky,
Connected by dreams, though reality keeps us shy.
YOU ARE READING
It's Still 12a.m.
PoetryAs the clock's final whisper embraced the dying day, darkness enveloped my room. Raindrops danced upon the fog-kissed windowpane. In the gentle glow of a dimmed lamp, I sat at my table, pen poised to capture the thoughts that flowed from the depths...
