to reverse time

I hardly remember
what 2 a.m. looks like. At 2 a.m.
his delicately hungry hallways
echoed my words. Words woven
onto autumn leaves, held together
by weathered branches.
At 2 a.m. arctic whispers
felt along my spine;
reminders that I loved wrong,
what felt right. 
Snow too soon melting,
lakes become warm waters
of regret 
to bathe in.
How I miss being awake at 2 a.m.
naked with feeling,
chasing the sun...
I'd rather be there
than here, at 9 p.m.
wondering where 2 a.m.
has gone.



​

© 2012 Jessica Ceballos, all rights reserved.