2am’s not quite

3am, when you start making noises

about having to sleep

I have to get up in a few hours

why are we still talking, anyway?

2am’s not 1am either

when you’re still almost coherent

cognisant, expressing your thoughts well

because you want them to think well of you

At 2am we realise

we don’t really know each other

But the logistics of leaving

and the wine, and the time

makes it easy for me to stay

And I want to talk to you, laying

hands entwined, breath in the dark

I want to know

what you think about religion

and ghosts

and love

At 2am you can lose reason and restraint

and caution

Amongst the words falling I feel your mouth

forming slow ideas

about sex and tattoos and the possibility of this all actually meaning something

It’s darkest at 2am

I can’t see your face

I  lie and listen to your voice

speaking poetry

that you won’t remember in the morning

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