3 a.m. by Siyana Ivanova

it's 3 a.m. already, and
snowflakes fall through the streetlight
like cold fireflies
dancing with the wind
in some strange rhythm of their own
that makes me rock in my chair
as i watch, embraced by the dark,
and slowly, quietly, sink.
i run my hand through my hair and wish
it was someone else's -
the hair or the hand, it doesn't matter -
because the last living thing that touched me
was a snowflake.
and when it did, it died.
and i remembered how once,
at 3 a.m., you were telling me a story
about snowflakes falling through the streetlight
like cold fireflies.
and then, at 3 a.m.,
we were finally able to sleep.

(only it's 3.32 now.)