3 a.m.

Wed, 01/11/2017 - 20:29 -- gypsy04

Maybe one night when we are together

it will be 3 a.m.

and the walls will ricochet laughter

and we will not be able to stop

until our stomachs hurt and our vision blurs.

 

Because in this past year

Christmas stopped feeling like Christmas

(it should not have)

and summer stopped feeling quite like

the freedom it used to hold.

Maybe because the bonfires stopped

and people (us) got busy.

Maybe we drifted apart sometime back,

and maybe it is time we learned that friendships

don’t last quite as long as forever.

 

But when we are together again

(whenever it possibly be)

it is late at night

and we are vulnerable

and we wait for one of us to spill

out our life about the year apart.

And I get that it is hard,

(it is difficult for me to talk too)

but eventually we will tell what it is

in those boxes beneath our beds

and what was written in the letters

that did not make it to the mailbox,

and those texts we typed out

but never gathered the courage to hit send.

Because damn if we do not have secrets we hold in

and yet, need to say.

We will start on about what has happened

since life got in the way of being happy.

(So, so much).

What ate us up and spat us right back out.

(Society).

Who the skeletons in our closets belong to.

(Ourselves)

 

It has been a while since our sleepovers

were filled with Oreos and soda,

talk of the neighborhood gossip,

and watching entire seasons

of Say Yes to the Dress and Cake Boss.

Times have changed since a year before now;

it just does not work like that anymore.

(Will it ever?)

 

And for all those old photographs

that cover our walls collecting dust,

we know the stories behind some,

we just don’t know what has happened

in the ones put up in the year since.

What made your eyes not match your smile in this one?

(Was it because of him?)

What is the look you are giving in that Polaroid?

(Was your mother dancing to “her jam” again?)

What happened to us?

(Why are we both so damn empty now?)

 

And maybe one night when we are together

it will be 3 a.m. and we will remember back

when we were young and sad,

but we will not have to talk about it;

we will know.

And it will be 3 a.m.,

and it will be okay again.

   

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741