3 a.m.

I stare at the gray curtains,

parted lips, and hollow cheeks.

The narrow streets lit up

in the chords of silence.

I drown in the sea of memories.

A few blurred days, smoke,

the faint smile, blue eyes,

an evening together on the balcony,

witnessing the shooting star.

A musical tune waits

at my sealed window

for someone.

My eyes are set on the road,

a sun-soaked napkin,

designed in your name—

flowers of a storm.

You are out for a voyage.

Return soon—someone's waiting for you,

before the music drops.

This time,

all I can do is lie down,

and try to fall asleep,

but I know I will stare at the wall of hanging frames

of us.

The horizon's dark,

The memories chase—

remains a thick air of loneliness,

only loneliness;

I'm alone.

When the minutes roll in the known city,

it always feels like a strange walking past me.

A strange 3:15 a.m.