2 am Thoughts.

It’s 2:01 am on early morning Sunday. How ironic is it that the time reads the two numbers that affilate with my birth date. Eight days until I am twenty-two, and yet I feel like I’ve lived a thousand lives. The city has fallen silent once again, but this time, we’ve been blizzard-out and and are full of “stay safe’s.” A simple mug filled up to one quarter, brewed with instant — take it black! Quiet, silence, hangs in the air. The type of silence I don’t mind, but could drive another mad. A simple thought of him, missing him and his tenderness and physicality. Watching the world below me among Mother Nature’s gift — or curse. Sleep, drift, stay awake. Fight it, deny it, come to a happy medium. Check your phone for messages from him. Check the windows again. Lull, silence … more plow trucks on the roads. More people walking around the streets. What to do, what to think, — perhaps undress and close my eyes and wrap my self into a sea of blankets and dream and think and touch myself to him touching me, liking me, making love to me. Count down the days until we see each other again. Count down the days until my birthday, count down the days until his (three days to be exact). Practice rereading the poem you wrote for him. Drift, drifted, drifting …… another sip of coffee. Another plow truck. Undress. Naked and exposed. Art. Pose. Lull and browse until you silently dream of him.

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