Our hearts do not beat in the daytime.

It is only lying awake

beneath the moon,

with our head nestled inside

the crook of our arm,

that the silenced thoughts within our throats

find passion enough

to sound again.

Because at three in the morning,

our voices are knitted from nothing

but the patches on our skin

and the faint fog of our breath.

Our hands want nothing more

than to forge and sway

our own little universes,

places (however small)

where our own desires

take presence

before any other.

We spend so much of our time

wandering loose among the empty fields,

hearts and compasses

forlorn and broken.

Staring out our windows

at three in the morning,

as if expecting the night

to forfeit the answers

to questions we don’t even know to ask.

A fleet of a.m. thinkers

looking for things

that they never found

to begin with.

We are flashlights in the dark,

trying futilely to switch on

and banish the night

without the barest hint of knowledge

of the function of an “on button.”

And yet we go on,

tirelessly, ceaselessly,

trying to find…

something.

Something.

Hoping desperately

that our hearts,

though unique,

are not alone.

That somewhere out there,

there is a hand that fits into ours

without any hint of asymmetry.

And every now and then

I still wake up

at three in the morning,

a shivering dreamer

staring out the window

looking for you.

And I can’t help but wonder if,

somewhere in this little blue world,

you’re staring out yours

and looking for me.

And this journey,

devoid of destination,

encompasses all that we are.

The promise that somewhere

in a sea of steady lights,

we’ll find the one that’s flickering on and off.

And instead of screwing the bulb back in

(in some perceived “right” or “proper” way)

we get the chance to show the light

the music, the rhythm

embedded in the very special way

that they malfunction.

I think, if we knew each other,

that that is what we would talk about.

I can’t remember any

of our conversations

(not that we’ve had them yet),

and my heart quiets slightly

when I realize

that our memories don’t exist.

But still I remember the way

we’d stay awake until three a.m,

talking about life

and death

and where the world came from

and where it might be going

and the various merits of peanut butter,

all in the span of ten minutes.

I remember the way I’d never stop comparing

the parts of your body

to the parts of a universe;

two singing stars placed here,

with cosmic strings falling into your eyes

and the steady staccato of supernovas

thundering between your ribs.

But most of all, and most truly,

I remember the way we danced.

Alone.

In separate rooms.

Our tears lost

among the whispers

of more subtle hearts.

~ B.A.