3 a.m I am
sleeping
you, drawn
restless as
the birds
we  spied beside
the slough, frothing
at the mouth, or
tearing from
a dream, my words
only make it worse,
as hopeful as they seem.
3 a.m. is a fractured time
bones still poking out
if I angle the mirror just so
I read the lines beside your mouth
in certain light
the sight's enough
for me to need to
wash my hands
At 3 a.m.
you wake and
shift under the sheets
while the lines too faint
to understand
kick me in my sleep.