3 a.m. creeps in, heavy and brooding, full of feeling with no room to hold it. One by one, the houses in the suburban neighborhood blink their eyes shut,
drawing in the curtains tighter to their bodies,
to hide or protection, maybe comfort. I shiver, wondering if the lamp posts will sputter on,
even though they always do. More than I do, the bugs and moths depend on the harsh, yellow light
to remind them that the sun will rise by morning. Despite the weight of the night and closed doors,
the air is saturated with meaning.
Heavy and brooding, but full of feeling.
It is when the night feels empty that I truly worry.
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