10 p.m.
My head hits the pillow.
My mind begins its marathon of thoughts that always end with you at the finish line.
Your plot to weaken me grows,
with every flashing glow from my phone.

12 a.m.
Electrical charges pulse back and forth from our lips.
A conversation on steroids.
I dread the withdrawal,
Until all that is left is my own wishful thinking.

3 a.m.
A hot waterfall of emotions slipping down my back.
Vulnerability, guilt, and pride swirl into a tornado down the drain.
Flinging on a robe, I leap to write down all hopeless fantasies of our romances.
Only evoking my insides to dance once more.

5 a.m.
Eyes blink rapidly.
Bricks lay across the body, but the heart weighs no more than a feather.
He types letters onto a screen to me like gasoline fueling a fire.
He places a match in my hands,
As he flees the scene.