Midnight Draft
Oh silence, you sit with me in a room that refuses to speak back.
Here I am—
12 in the morning,
alone with the whispers
of last night’s dreams.
The room hums softly,
a quiet storm
of scattered thoughts
and faded memories,
pages torn from nowhere
drifting in my chest.
The scent of solitude
hangs heavy in the air—
not bitter,
not sweet—
just there,
like breath fogging up
a closed window.
The typewriter stares,
unyielding in its stillness,
its silence
louder than my heartbeat,
daring me
to stitch –
to weave something
meaningful
from the frayed edges
of my thoughts.
But words feel foreign,
ghost-like.
They flicker,
then vanish,
just like dreams
when the light hits.
Still,
I sit here,
sifting through the fog,
searching
for language that breathes,
hoping the quiet
will turn
into poetry.