3 A.M.

You have been up
half the night already
listening to a man
fighting demons that
he created and fed olives
to, in his own mind.

It is a drunk night
that smells of cheap vodka
and broken dreams. blue
skies with stars that you look
up to, from your gutters.
stars, unreachable.

A night of Cohen, Tagore
Haikus, O' Hara and
tunes unsung, songs
unwritten. captured in
a bottled tucked away
deep in your mind.

A little man weeping
tears of glass from
his eyes that sting of ash,
falling on your hands
that hold his. unwanted,
your heat is, but still.

Your hands start to
scathe and scald
and words form out
of your burnt skin
making their way of
the window.

Out of the window
towards the moon
in dancing shadows
shadows of you
and him, loving.

You drain yourself
of all the words
that were remaining
to be spoken
by that filthy mouth
of yours.

Words he didn't like
words he never liked
words that mocked you
and words that tore
you from your being.

What does it matter.
you never were of much
importance, to begin
with. an unimportant,
lifeless, dreamless,
little woman.