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,
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.