2 a.m

2 a.m is for lovers,

for the dreamers and poets.

When the city sleeps,

and the streetlights dim,

and there is not a sound on the roads,

When the rains have receded,

the clouds sighing in wet memory,

wind carrying traces of an old love,

Some rooms,

the lights are yet to go off,

Some rooms, already up.

That is when I want to go on a drive,

with windows rolled down.

Maybe someone sits by the window,

waiting for the last traveller of the day,

Watching the darkness turn to purple,

then crimson,.

then the first bird leave its nest.

2 a.m is a mystic time.

The bridge where the day walks over,

When the shadows are darker than darkness,

The time when Peter Pan visits,

and asks you for a thimble.

Under the sheets, in the dim flash of a pen torch,

she finishes the last pages of a book and smiles,

at 2 a.m she doesn't miss him,

2 a.m is for her and her poets,

and her writers,

and dreamers who can't sleep.