It's 8pm, but why does that matter?
8pm is a world of home movies and cuddles and steaming tea,
where time is put on hold for a while, just to
give us a moment to breathe, lean in, and sigh,
"This is us, this relaxed euphoria. This is us, this retreat from the dawn and the brutal day."

It's 10pm, but what difference does that make?
10 pm is a world of computer screens and soft music and stories,
where time stretches and bends, shaping itself to
the space around you, murmuring just out of your sight,
"This is us, this peaceful calm. This is us, this rest from the dawn and the bustling day."

It's midnight, but does that mean anything, really?
Midnight is a world of shadows and streetlights and fog,
where infinity is a moment, a breath of space to
grasp with cold fingers to bring to one's mouth and whisper,
"This is us, this cool desolation. This is us, this retribution against the dawn and the burning day."

It's 2am, but what does that have to do with anything?
2am is a world of pauses and hesitations and waking dreams,
where time has a physical, transparent form to
inhabit like this liminal skin that hisses and cries and hums,
"This is us, this recurring threshold. This is us, this barrier against the dawn and the broken day."

It's 4am, but who cares?
4am is a world of laughter and grins and reckless abandon,
where we are liberated from our corporeal forms to
transcend the bonds of duty and responsibility, singing,
"This is us, this ethereal dance. This is us, this rebellion against the dawn and the belligerent day."

It's 6am, but is it?
6am is a world of last chances and final requests and goodbyes,
where the time-slipping of the night is fading to
be replaced by the inevitability of the rising sun, sighing,
"This is us, this new ending. This is us, this poem against the dawn and the bothersome day."

h.f.m.