You could have heard a pin drop.
3:30am --- you wished time could stop.
The inevitable first day of the week.
Daddy's already dragging your feet.
Bumpy trike ride's no cure for the drowse.
Just nap on the bus, sweet little dormouse.
But what, in truth, are wake up calls for?
For me to ring you to a new day you so abhor?
I know that last night did not go so well,
Even if lately you never cared to tell.
9:30. On the other side of the world, I sit still.
3:30. I know you're awake, ready for the drill.
Bus rides back home are but placebos,
Short whiles to slow down all your woes.
"But that's fine," I would always say,
"Just tell me what happened to your day."
They were heart-wrenching, at times very funny.
But now it takes luck for me to hear a single story.
What makes you think that silence heals?
What makes you so sure that time will reveal?
My inevitable mornings have been like your Mondays,
Slow-driving, night-blindness, on unfamiliar highways.
3:30. From the other side of the world, I just let you be.
9:30. I know you're awake. Do you still think of me? #
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