Fri, 11/08/2019 - 23:48 -- r3ginah

When midnight rolls around, the lullabies stop.

And my head is pulled out of a fog.

I can breathe, I can think.

Swing left, swing right.

A sweatshirt, a tug on the window pane.

Head first, arms out, cold breeze, rough shingles.

A routine that doesn't cut like rope on your wrists,

Or tape over your mouth.

Waking up to the moon and stars you can't really see.


Unprecedented, warm, honest.

Stripped bare on a slope, with extra layers on.

Talking all night, only at night,

And when the sun comes up you have to say goodbye.

Your best talks are there. But only at midnight.

It live inside you, but gets pushed down by waves of other people's words.

It easier to stay silent in the day,

But at midnight, the silence offers the best advice. 

This poem is about: 


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