at two in the morning there is no hiding

you lumber back into me

and I'll remember you whole.

at two in the morning that kinetic touch becomes too much to bare

and for a moment I might forget

to be bitter,

morose,

and if you take that away what's left?

a poet's ego?

at two in the morning forgetting doesn't work quite as well

burned within me there is no relief.

after so long,

I can't begin to understand how you find your way back to me.

at two in the morning none of it seems to matter

you'll be gone,

a photo in a drawer

as soon as the sun shines

I'll be free.

but at two in the morning

it's just you and me, D.