It’s 4:17 AM

This isn’t insomnia.

It’s my attempt to bring order.

It’s my longing for a shoulder.

It’s the silvers getting older – courser.

While you dream at 4:17 AM

This isn’t normal.

It’s the thoughts getting better.

It’s the rain she remembers

It’s every time you forget her – forsake her

Mayer plays at 4:17 AM

This isn’t a beginning.

It’s every end while holding your hand.

It’s every skeleton we didn’t believe in.

It’s our last apathetic attempt – to understand

in your arms at 4:17 AM.

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