The morning is for the lovers.
For those who wake up in each others arms
and plant quiet soft kisses on their warm skin.
It's the time of the day for honest, sleepy voices to wishper
"I love you".
But the night belongs to the poets.
Those who sit lonely all night and
bleed their souls out into a piece of white paper.
Those who love someone who falls asleep
in someone else's arms.
Those who ache.
Cold hands, heavy heart.
They can make 2 a.m desperate confessions
sound like poetry.
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