I woke up next to you, bleary eyed and smiling.
You had this predawn glow sensuality going on,
One I’d not seen for a time.
We’ve been keeping different schedules.

It’s not that I don’t think of you,
It’s not that I don’t think fondly of all the times we spent together
And we’ll share moments again, I’m sure of it.

But I don’t pine for you, I don’t miss you,
And I know you’ve barely noticed my absence.
After all those years of telling myself I was one thing,
I’ve discovered a capacity to encompass more.
I’m not just a night owl,
I’m a morning person too.

Don’t get me wrong,
there is a poetry to 4 am that other hours might never comprehend,
When the first stirrings of dawn are still buried under a crisp blanket of stars,
An hour past the weighted worry of 3 am,
well beyond the witchy whisper of that ultimate transition time,
midnight.
4am is a shoulder season measured in seconds,
A bleary limbo of indecision
Caught between should I try to sleep wrapped in what’s left of the night
or not bother and embrace the unsteady stumble of the sleepless braving the day?

You are the hour of one more cigarette,
One last drink drift into the ethers
and wake up somewhere on the other side of hangover strong enough to inspire cracked lip promises it’ll be different this time.

Well, now it’s different.
We had our time,
I’ve moved on.
And so kiss me gently and let me go back to sleep.