I woke up last night at the witching hour,

Neither with a jolt, akin to the plucking of an unwitting, un-ripened fruit,

Nor gently strirred out of slumber, like a cloud unveiling the moon,

When I woke up last night, it was as if I had been awake all along,

I wondered what had woken me; I wondered whether I had been asleep at all,

Yet, here was the fresh memory of my subconscious gestating within the soft folds of slumber,

I could almost taste the warm tones of its tranquillity;

I could sense the flutter in the exhilaration of its dreams,

I could still slide into the longing of its afterglow,

But here I was, a-woke at the witching hour,

What woke me, I couldn’t say,

It could be any number of things, a multitude of reasons,

Like life flashing before my eyes, so did the permutating possibilities,

They didn’t matter though, these reasons,

When I woke up last night at the witching hour,

Neither jolted, nor gently stirred,

Lying awake in my bed, still as the stillest of nights,

I knew,

Once I was asleep, and now sleep had left me,

So was I once in love, and now love has left me...