3am comes to those who wish for something
more. Something different. A different shade
of mauve sunset tears over a rainy coastline
after an unnaturally gray Oregon afternoon.
After an unnaturally gray Oregon morning.
Like repetition. Like uniform. Like perpetual.
3am comes at all hours of the day. Waiting
for the bus. Checking Facebook on an old
phone, hoping something will validate us.
Make this day worth the weight. Make us dance
in the Portland city streets. But solace never
comes. Like the sound of the other shoe never
dropping. 3am comes. Ripping through our chests
like a bullet. Like shot in the back. Like every footstep
on bloodied sidewalks a betrayal. The terror
of unrequited love a parasite, passing from one poet,
one lover, one brainstorm to the next. Morphing
into the monsters we always see in the mirror.
Like 3am. Like Bill Murray in Groundhog’s Day.
Like will this ever end. Like I would love to bathe
with the toaster. Like I am sick of seeing that smile
on the faces of the people I love. Like that smile
is never for me. Like the raindrop on a freshly lit
cigarette. Like that Alanis Morrisette song. But
nothing is ever ironic. As if it could be that easy.