Wee Hours Nocturne

 Four in the morning and loneliness

is my only companion.

It torments me

by singing its haunting refrain

to my heart.

Once, it was a stranger,

but now,

I know it well.

The hours we have shared

brought not contempt,

but an uneasy truce

between what I want

and what is.

A selective forgetfulness

of the pleasure of passion’s whispers

tingling on my skin,

of the thrill of fingertips and lips

exploring me,

of sighs that shout

what no spoken language can express.

I long for sleep,

my only respite:

that time when

the past becomes the present,

and we have a future.

Copyright 2003 Bobbi Duffy