The night refuses
to let me sleep.
The clock grows quietly
in the dark
3:17 a.m.,
a time that feels less like a moment
and more like a place
I keep getting trapped in.
My body won’t rest.
The blankets are warm
but my hands are cold,
shivering in small tremors
that start somewhere deep
in my chest.
Heartbreak does strange things
to a body.
It turns silence
into an echo chamber.
Every memory
comes back louder
the way you laughed,
the way your voice softened
when you said my name,
the way I believed
that meant something permanent.
Now the bed feels too big.
Too empty.
My muscles twitch
with the restless energy
of someone whose heart
is still trying to run
toward a person
who has already walked away.
And the worst part
is the shaking.
Not dramatic
just small, quiet tremors
like my body
is trying to survive
something my mind
can’t stop replaying.
I curl deeper into the blankets
like I can hide
from the ache.
But heartbreak doesn’t sleep.
It lingers in the ribs,
in the throat,
in the hollow space
between one breath
and the next.
And somewhere between
3:17
and morning,
I realize
the night isn’t cold.
It’s just the absence
of the warmth
I used to fall asleep beside.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 5:25 PM UTC
The night refuses
to let me sleep.
The clock grows quietly
in the dark
3:17 a.m.,
a time that feels less like a moment
and more like a place
I keep getting trapped in.
My body won’t rest.
The blankets are warm
but my hands are cold,
shivering in small tremors
that start somewhere deep
in my chest.
Heartbreak does strange things
to a body.
It turns silence
into an echo chamber.
Every memory
comes back louder
the way you laughed,
the way your voice softened
when you said my name,
the way I believed
that meant something permanent.
Now the bed feels too big.
Too empty.
My muscles twitch
with the restless energy
of someone whose heart
is still trying to run
toward a person
who has already walked away.
And the worst part
is the shaking.
Not dramatic
just small, quiet tremors
like my body
is trying to survive
something my mind
can’t stop replaying.
I curl deeper into the blankets
like I can hide
from the ache.
But heartbreak doesn’t sleep.
It lingers in the ribs,
in the throat,
in the hollow space
between one breath
and the next.
And somewhere between
3:17
and morning,
I realize
the night isn’t cold.
It’s just the absence
of the warmth
I used to fall asleep beside.