there has always been something grand about the late hours
all of us who are still awake, roaming the night sky
we all witness the soft calm and silence.
distant televisions at low volumes,
they could be echoes of the dreamer’s dreams
and we get to listen in
wide-eyed and calm,
i stood naked at the outside door of my apartment
and it was 2am and it was raining on my shoulders
and my cigarette got wet.
sunday nights; repair the tiresome jaunts of weekend bliss
and now, the city sleeps and prepares the working week.
my time for slumber; come back to bed.
i bring the rain inside; clung to hairs on chest
and the sheets are cooled as i dream off the rest.