At three o’clock in the morning
silence is so loud
crickets orchestrate through my thick walls
the river flows in rapids with an angry passion.
Saturated air weighs more than my naked body
there is no human-movement outside;
the world is at a cessation.
I exist inside a still frame
stuck in one thought-filled millisecond
of my long, drawn out life–
it is similar to my existence.
Being alone in the stillness of
the murky, morning hours,
when the sky is pregnant
grey water, ready to torrent,
when the sun hasn’t risen,
and the moon has just sunk–
I live my life in the in between, and
it reminds me of how small I am:
I am merely
one fallen honey crisp apple
that has plunged to cold October soil
in the field of an entire orchard.
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