3 a.m. is the hour of blank solitude

and wet eyes that ache in memory of a lover who is no longer there.

3 a.m. is the hour of a dark and silent room,

with quiet tip-taps on the keyboard and the sound of my quiet breathing.

3 a.m. is the hour of my sorrow,

my tired back,

my tired soul.

It is the hour of lips that do not tremble for the touch of another,

but for lips that touch nothing,

for lips that agonizingly linger in the cold, winter air.

It is not for eyes that meet another,

but for eyes that stare blankly into nothing,

for hands that do not intertwine with another,

but for anxious hands that grasp the crisp, white sheets.

3 a.m. is the hour of nostalgia,

where the lonely remember everything they have lost.

It is not for warm bodies that lay close,

electric to the touch of each other,

but for cold bodies that lie alone,

cradled by nothing but the darkness, dreams and desires.

This is the hour of blank solitude

and wet eyes that ache in memory of a lover who is no longer there.