Tick tock.
It’s midnight.
From East to West,
everyone is sleeping,
but me.
It’s dark everywhere.
Owls are no longer hooting.
I can’t hit the mattress,
not because it’s fall,
not because it’s cold,
but because I miss her,
the one poetry should,
be written for.
I miss my first love.
I miss my mom!

Mohammed Arafat
November 14, 202