3:13 a.m.

At 3:13 a.m. the night sharpens.

Even the dark feels awake.

The house holds its breath.

This is when I wake sweating -

as I usually do -

sheets twisted, my heart already ahead of me,

because once again the war has found me

where I live now.

Clocks lose authority at this hour.

Time stops explaining itself.

The moon hangs like an unanswered question

over the sink,

a chipped blue mug,

a plate I meant to rinse,

the faint ring where yesterday gave up.

My phone lies face-down,

brave in its silence.

Even the walls stop pretending to listen.

This is the hour that doesn’t want witnesses

but keeps me anyway.

The visions don’t announce themselves.

They never do.

They arrive intact,

as if they’ve been walking toward me

all day.

Outside, a streetlight flickers -

not dying, just considering it.

Somewhere a train horn drags its sound

through the dark,

a long regret I recognize.

At 3:13 a.m. I hear my name

the way it sounds

when no one answers.

I count breaths.

I count cracks in the ceiling.

I bargain with morning

as if it were a person

who might let me go.

Sleep circles but won’t land.

Dreams sit on the edge of the bed,

shoelaces dangling,

asking if I’m really ready.

And then - almost mercifully,

the minute passes.

3:14 arrives without comment,

leaving me with the quiet certainty

that the night let me go this time -

and knows where to find me.

GBS jr

2007