the night is young

there is a pulse in everything: the tired trees

with dancing shadows, beeping meters of broken

homes filled with sleeping children

rooms heavy with static and burning tobacco

voices whispering secrets

curious bodies wild with desire

the wind chimes tell melodies of the night

it is almost too sweet— like melancholy

i hear a child beg for one more story

before the light goes out

there are no tears;

the whiskey is quiet & the lover dead

i try to peel open my head

an owl screams at my misery

the night is still young

and i can’t sleep.