ROOMS AT MIDNIGHT
The house is quiet now,
The hustle bustle of merriment died down.
The world has descended into a slumber,
The night descends into its lonesome loveliness.
I like the quietness of the house at night.
There is no sound around me.
The ticking of the grandfather clock,
The slow and gentle snores of grandmother in the other room.
There are no sounds I hear, but these somber ones,
The grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
Father is leaving gentle sighs into the night,
While Mother hums a concerto in her dreams.
I like the solitariness of the night,
All the noise died down into the wind.
I hear the house breathing now,
Taking gentle breaths as she rests under me.
The walls seem to smile at me,
Gentle nothings I share as I run my fingers through its face.
The pillows have gained their former shapes,
Seducing me to sleep.
Conversations in glances I make,
Gestures of love to my own lonesomeness.
Nights like these I reminisce,
Of love and life and the in between.
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