It's 4:30 in the morning, it's always 4:30 in the morning

The palest of my two palms is sweating...
recollecting
late night fingers
petting
skeleton knuckles

Repeatedly
falling limp

stale
and
clever

beautiful
and
morbid

atop the fleshy spot
your cheek
made home

Sometimes, I wish.
I wish,
I wish,
I wish!
The sky lark
would make it rain...
inside!

Flooding this rejected hideout
Washing away the faintness
of your scent,
disguised as echos
exhaled by sea shells
scattered
on the bed side table.

Episodic visions
of your bare hands
left to loiter
like morning dew
in the six corners
of my freedom