11 p.m. is for single mothers
who cradle a glass of wine in their fingers
and wait for the sound of a child crying
they hope will never come—
it always does.
12 a.m. is for high school students
to do homework they didn’t have time to do
after lacrosse practice and dance rehearsal—
they yearn to rest their tired eyes
1 a.m. is for sneaking into your bedroom
on a school night at seventeen,
reminding yourself how tired
you will be in the morning,
convincing yourself it was worth it.
2 a.m. is for star-crossed lovers
rolling in bed sheets smelling of
alcohol and tragic dreams that
ironically lull them to sleep.
3 a.m. is for hopeless romantics
wishing under late-night skies
for someone to talk to,
for someone who gets it.
And all of those people think
they’ve got it bad, but
when 4 a.m. rolls around the corner,
the past sinks into your veins—
4 a.m. is too late for anyone to save you,
for when 4 a.m. tells you,
“You can’t do this anymore,”
you believe it.
— 4 a.m.