1:45 am

Desperation comes at one forty five am

on a Sunday night while a new week’s promise

creeps on the dawn, and you begin to wonder

if the left side of the bed will ever

again be filled by a body who cares enough

to read the tiny whimpers you don’t know you make

deep in dreams,

dreams that morning will erase.

 

But these thoughts are only good for one forty five,

as eight am is for only thoughts of escaping radio static,

tease the dial and plan the quickest commute.

Noon, for thoughts of the hard boiled egg,

half an apple and brie sandwich that waits in the

break room, and four thirty five births thoughts

of the promise of freedom with five pm.

 

Desperation comes at one forty five am,

on a Sunday night while the weekend replays.

By two am, thoughts don’t come,

only dreams and your unconscious sighs

that fall on no one’s ears.

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