The night is late and lonely,
tired arms craving a connection,
the moon is making memories with the stars,
but I am bound for bed,
with nobody but the sheets and my bad dreams for company.
I put on a record,
bracing myself for the barrenness of the cold air around me,
dancing in darkness,
with tired, trembling arms,
that are hungry,
hysterical,
halfway to giving up all together.
I hold it together,
for a second,
then I am crestfallen,
crumbling on the kitchen floor,
tears fall,
and for a second,
my arms believe that someone will hold them again,
one day.
