It's late

There's a peculiar stillness
at night
when you're alone
in the dark
like a blanket--
a weight
that holds you down--
a cocoon
surrounding you
so warm and so cold.
There's a heaviness
to the darkness
that isn't there
in the light--
a pressure you only feel
at night
when you're alone.
It's a song
sung
in a language
not you're own.
You don't know if the words
are comforting
or kind
or another
thinly veiled barb
that gets under your skin.
Those words
that stick
to you
and
make you think
feel
dwell
on
the
you that shouldn't be,
the you that isn't,
the you that will never
be.
And underneath it all,
a pulse,
a beat,
the blood,
rushing through your veins,
trying to tell the
world
that you
are
alive,
you are here.
You
have
a voice
too.
It's
just
quiet
and
no
one
can
hear
it.




This poem brought to you by pink champagne and a lonely Valentine's Day.