I hate four o’clock in the morning.

When the sky barely starts choking up colors for the new day;
when the foxes preach their screeching sermons to the dew-strewn grass;
when I can’t bear to face the day
again
and
again
and
again.

I hate four o’clock in the morning
because it reminds me that nothing will be patient enough
for my weary bones to gather once more.
It reminds me that,
like all things,
time will march on-
and I am not yet brave enough
to follow its battle cry.

I hate four o’clock in the morning,
and I haven’t gotten enough sleep
because I have given everything
to something that will barely give me back half.

But that’s the way of things, no?
We give
and give
and give
for what?

I think I forgot.

shaking off unconsciousness
stretching those aching joints
and lifting your eyelids to light
as sunlight begins to stream in

you pull the soft covers down
your sluggish mind begins to wake
as you slip from the bed to the floor
reaching over a kiss to my head

you whisper good morning
then I role over again to sleep
as you leave me in the dawn
to begin the daily drawl