2:55 A.M.

Kaitlyn Marlowe

At 2:55 a.m., not even the songbirds have woken to share their joyous harmony.
At this hour, the last call is said and lost souls whistle through their whiskey covered lips trying desperately to venture home.
At a time like now, there is a still in the moonlit air where only night owls should be hunting their prey.
At moments frozen as these, I should be trapped in a solace penumbra, fast asleep, with my mind dancing through shimmering streets.
But, as I lay here restless, listening to the calm beat of my heart, my imagination drifts to a locus I dare not recollect.
As I drift into a slumber, I commemorate the taste of your rough lips brushing against my soft cheek.
As I repose, your steady hands feel warm across my chilled back.
As I marvel at the though of you, I look into your pastel blue eyes and see the gentle longing to take all that I am willing.
As I wonder when I will be reunited with my love, my heartbeat skips and disturbs it’s sanctifying rhythm and I sink into a cherished languor where I may wake hand to hand, chest to chest, and lips to lips with the one I call my beloved.

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