We float through life
like paper through the sky,
never able to land on its own.
We stay so quiet
like the world at 3am,
too tired to move our lips.
Its 3am again and the paper has escaped.

The sun got too hot
or the paper got to close,
ash is all that is left.
The day stayed too long
or the night came too late,
the silence is no more.
3am is gone and ash is all that's left.

Staring at the clock,
waiting for 3am.
I know it will come again.
Staring at the stack of paper,
waiting for a breeze.
I know it will be free again.

I crave the mute of 3am
and the unfettered paper,
chasing time,
chasing air,
until all is still.