I never cry at midnight.
It's still too close to the drama of the day,
To doing, to being, facts, routine and acts.
Dreams are waiting, whispering,
Timidly sending out tendrils,
Tears remain untempted; this is not their time.

Near dawn, and only sometimes,
Sobs shake my unsleeping soul.
The things, the thoughts, that feed on salt, descend,
I walk a tightrope between night and day, begin and end,
I come so close to falling, and one day
I will just let go.