Peace From Raining Stars

It’s twelve past three in the morning, and I’ve just woken with a start. Somehow, I don’t feel the deep and dying loneliness often shadowing behind this restless hour. Sure, the darkness is present, loud, but not all-looming. I’ve often heard about this hour’s atmosphere only leaving room for blood to run thick with slumber, the calliope to haunt with bitter song, the dreams to leech into wakefulness in blurred lines of reality. Nothing good happens at three in the morning, but I find that difficult to believe. Because more often than not, three in the morning greets me with moments of prayer and poetry, shapes enriched in deep blues and purples that only live after setting sun, love whispered states over from beloved friends, and a closeness to the self that often gets distracted in daylight traffic. Three in the morning never scared the sun away from the man in the moon, and I am still here and alive as ever. Sweet morning, breathe with me clarity tasting of peppermint and wash over me peace from raining stars.