There's a dark angsty touch of the time 12 am. She envelopes the sky with her pitch black hands, cooly but securely setting me in the darkness. She has one eye, bright and glowing sometimes, barely there a few days later. There are white tattoos littered over her skin and the tracks of globe setters - leaving their mark on the sky. She's entrancing, her beauty taking my breath away nightly. She compels tears from my eyes, the loneliness when it's just her and me smacks me in the chest.
At other times her darkness is comforting, especially when I’m with another- and we stare into her abyss- the words falling out of our mouths smoothly and echoing into the quiet of the 12 am. Our hands folded together under the covers- like the love that I hold for them. A secret. This is the hour when all of those come out. Between the sound of car horns and the dull bang of gunshots.
It doesn't scare me anymore, to love at 12 am. To let my tears flow at 12 am. To blast my music at 12 am. Because I know she's watching over me, with the glowing white eye and holding up the people in the sky. And I know she loves me, but she has places to go, so I sit at my window and watch as she backs away- leaving me with the clouds and the remnants of her purple paintings in the sky.