Crying Season

May 7th, 2015

I can't sleep

because

what's on my mind

is keeping me awake.

It's 4 am

and i don't think

I'll get enough sleep

tonight.

The stars shine bright up there,

inviting me to go home,

but there's no home

where i can hide.

Its 4 am

and i think it's a bit cold tbh.

It's cold like the touch of your hands,

or the way you looked at me.

It's 4 am

and i'm alone,

but i can't find myself

at 4 am;

and i can't think straight

at 4 am;

but who the fuck is awake

at 4 am?

And i can't seem to love myself

other than

at 4 am.

Like pouring rain,

everything was filled with vodka.

And you drank until

you couldn't think straight.

And i tried to hide myself

at 4 am,

so i wouldn't feel your cold

at 4 am.

But 4 am is the time

of the broken.

An hour in honor for those gone.

An hour for going away.

An hour for pain.

That's 4 am.

And you always got me at 4:30,

and hit me with your cold

and drowned me in vodka-taste kisses

i never wanted to give you.

But those are all secrets

i keep in my 4 am.