You may wonder why
I wait so long to write,
when it has long since
been knows that I would
every day.

I assure you it is not
because I am lazy,
although I can be,
but rather because
I am waiting to milk
every ounce of life
out of the day.

If I wrote you in the morning
my words would always be
be bold speaking of how
comfortable my bed is so early
and how I wish you were here with me.

If I wrote you in the afternoon
far too often I would write
in a more traditional fashion
of how I see so many people
and you are greater to me
than any of them.

If I wrote you in the evening
I would without meaning
subtly convey my weariness
towards the world and that
I long for your vibrant energy
to give me strength to start again.

But when I write you in the middle of the night,
when I feel alive of my own accord,
I can share with you the spirit
of this small fraction of life
and how it is always shifting,
constantly draggin me down
and pushing me back up
and how despite all of it,
you are the last thing I think of
so that I may ensure pleasant dreams.