Posted in Poems, Uncategorized

2 am.

it is that time again when fatigue and hyperacute memory meet within the folds of my mind,

i hide there

in a drunken state,

a hazy dreamlike place,

where all i can focus on is the steel etching of his jawline.

the winter chill clutches me closer,

the wind thumps against the windowpane

and i, surrounded by it,yet apart,

submerged in the blaring silence of loneliness.

a  light passes above me,

a flickering or electricity that will not die out,

then it sleeps

as sleep evades me.

i pull the veil tighter

to asphyxiate myself.

the blue of my bug eyes

so stark in comparison to the blinding darkness of this hour.

the hand passes,

drapes over the edge,

sliding it falls

3

words i will not speak.

closed curtains to where it may be:

Buona Notte.

 

-Eva M.M.

With this poem, in particular, I did a lot of things different stylistically than what you might be used to me doing and I wanted to see if you guys had any theorist as to why you think I did that or just any thoughts in general or questions about it. Thank you for reading and commenting.

” Me and the pen we are one. If its ink would cease to flow, my ink would cease to flow.”

 

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Author:

I am a young and enthusiastic writer, fresh out of highschool and into college at IUSB. I babysit and work and live life to it's fullest. I write. I read. I do yoga. And plan to become. Yoga intructers as well. I grew up on a farm and can't,t wait to move back to the country in my tiny house I have already planned out. Sometimes I'm a little melodramatic but rarely. I'm a spiritual healer, a hopeless romantic, a book worm, and very nostalgic. Thanks for stopping by.

2 thoughts on “2 am.

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