3 AM – Stargazing

In the bottomless sea of spilled ink,

the stars are drowning,

some lost beneath damp blots.

Below, in the coldness of crumpled sheets

– between the creases of folded blank pages

buried the burned out hands.

Candles wasted in the witching hour

The world goes by, no eyes watch the lost spirit

crawling underneath this skin – stargazing on a pale Wednesday.

The flame flickers countless times,

when, at last, smoke swirls into the sky

and nothing is left behind but a suffocating scent

and this endless night.