Tired Arms

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.