Pillow Talk

3 A.M. is a person...
for most part she is bone-crushingly tired,
of how the weary light keeps his distance,
her somnolent face is framed prettily,
by wisps of scintillant, buttermilk-y clouds,
Sometimes she is an oxymoron of tranquil loneliness,
dressed in moonless nights and vapid thoughts,
Yet, there are those rare nights she feels lascivious,
she is attired in mangled bed clothes,
and rich perfume of pleasure-driven sweat,
the music of the post-coital heart beats,
is interspersed with flushed-faced confessions,
He says he loves his noodles soupy,
She says she has lain in puddles of her own blood...
and silence...
See, that's the thing about 3 A.M,
she doesn't ever get to be happy.