Early morning, late at night.
I heard someone talking about you again.
Unlike most he spoke in reverence of your peace, of your creative space.
Spoke out of love – no one else is around, up during your moment each day.
I haven’t visited in a while.
I have no excuses – only lies to me.
I need to stay up or get up.
4am the time for poetry, novels, stories and if I am lucky, the perfect sentence.
Only when I am trying to shut off my thoughts does my subconscious dance freely.
It’s a game we both play – a wicked dance.
When I need you or want you – you can’t help but saunter off into the corner.
Tucked away in comfort, drifting towards dreams you pull me out of bed.
A single scene, a glib piece of dialogue or a character that I know I’ve met but can’t place.
All entertainment, value and stories I need to hear but they don’t exist.
How can it be?
How can I put them down in words?
It will become an obsession –
It will eventually torment me –
Maybe that will be enough.