At midnight I read with eyes too familiar with the dark.
I read what's on your mind
and every word is a heartache.
They engrave themselves upon the surface of my mind,
overwriting my thoughts with those of your own.
At midnight I write with hands that smell of garlic.
I write what's in my heart
and every word is an open wound.
They bleed onto the paper,
staining the page with all the things I feel but no longer say.
After midnight I try and rest a body that feels as if it's all been said and done before.
I whisper possibilities to the night
and every word is a comfort.
They grow like roses in the garden of my soul
and their scent lingers, always and everywhere.
Even at midnight as I read and write
with eyes familiar with the dark,
and hands that smell like garlic.