It's always 3:30 when I find myself more awake than any one girl ought to be unless she's got company, restless and uncomfortable and wanting to walk and go back to sleep at the same time. 3:30 fits like somebody else's wool sweater.
But I've seen a lot of 3:30 lately, tossing and turning, walking down to the water and back, pressing the Dick Tracy colors of my night times into the backs of my eyelids. I know that my nocturnal ambulations are probably a short recipe for a dramatic story, and maybe I feel a little too safe. Too invisible.
Except in the wrong hours my bed feels just as unsafe, haunted by the watery thump of a heart that may never have actually thumped. There were different words behind our same goodbyes.
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